


small, quiet room

by whatliesabove



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-02-23 20:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatliesabove/pseuds/whatliesabove
Summary: 'It hadn't been planned, obviously, but she supposes that's how it's always been between the two of them. Their friendship wasn't planned, instead forged through witty banter and disagreeable grunts over shared cigarettes.'Or, Jonathan doesn't look like Lonnie and there's a reason for that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is truly one of my favorite fan conspiracies and I felt compelled to contribute to it! This is a fun one to work through, and I hope you all stick with me for the ride. I'd love to hear what you think! x

 

_Acceptance is a small, quiet room_

_\- Cheryl Strayed_

_..._

_Hawkins, seventeen years ago_

Pacing back and forth in her bathroom, Joyce Horowitz fidgets, hands wringing uneasily in front of her. This is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous and she can't believe she's here right now, her entire future resting on a piece of plastic. She hasn't so much as looked at it since she put it on the counter. The time isn't up yet but she's been steadfastly keeping her gaze anywhere else, as if it'll just go away if she ignores it hard enough.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She pauses for a moment, chews anxiously at a nail that's already been bitten to a nub. Her stomach is in knots, her heart in her throat, and she swears she can  _feel_ the blood rushing in her ears.

This  _really_ wasn't supposed to happen.

It hadn't been planned, obviously, but she supposes that's how it's always been between the two of them. Their friendship wasn't planned, instead forged through witty banter and disagreeable grunts over shared cigarettes. It developed over the course of a few months and a few months turned into a few years. It's unconventional at best. They run—or ran, technically, because graduation is over and done with—in different circles, their paths only really crossing under the bleachers between fifth and sixth period and at the occasional party or football game.

In spite of herself, she chuckles at the memory of the first time they'd run into each other under those bleachers. She was ditching Chemistry, content to just sit under there until the teachers stopped wondering where she was so she could make a run for it. She'd heard a rush of rustling footsteps and panicked, thought a teacher caught on to her hide out. Instead, he appeared, all out of breath and eyes wide as he caught sight of her.

"What are you doing under here, Horowitz?" he'd asked, stepping into the space without a second thought.

"What I assume you're doing under here."

"Unless you're under here to sneak a smoke, you're wrong," he'd said, digging a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and placing it between his teeth. Lighting it up, he'd taken a long drag.

Joyce had barely let him enjoy it before she'd plucked it from his fingers, nearly snatching it clean from his mouth, and shoved it between her lips. She'd inhaled deeply, coughed—unfiltered, of course—and taken one last puff. Her face had broken into a smirk at the shocked look on his face, the wide eyes, and she simply passed it back.

"Thanks."

Placing it back between his teeth, he'd tilted his head at her. "Might've been wrong about you, Horowitz."

"Maybe so."

And  _graduation_. Graduation is the reason she's even in this predicament.

Okay, maybe not graduation per se, but the graduation party Karen had thrown—that is absolutely responsible. She was supposed to spend an hour there max, spend some time hanging out to placate her friend’s pleading, but suffice to say she had stayed longer.

Hopper showed up, much to her initial surprise, and made a quip about how they have to stop running into each other like this. Save for the bleachers, the last three times they've seen each other were at separate end of the year parties.

"Save me from the piranhas?" he'd asked, gesturing vaguely to the table with the drinks. "Pick your poison."

Joyce had rolled her eyes. "You're  _such_ a big shot," she'd teased. Truthfully there  _were_ a number of girls eyeing him, but making fun of him and his inflated ego was all a part of their relationship.

After they had their drinks they tried, to no avail, to find somewhere semi-quiet to hang out. Everywhere they turned there were drunk students stumbling all over the place, others running haphazardly throughout Karen's house.

"Car?"

She'd followed him to his dad's car and filed into the passenger seat. They'd talked, had one or two more drinks (after Hop had graciously gone inside and gotten them both refills so she could avoid their drunk classmates), and the conversation turned to their post-graduation plans. He told her a few of his long-term plans a while ago, but some things have changed, some timelines had to be rearranged.

"I don't know yet," she'd told him. There were thoughts, but no plans.

They were quiet after, because they both knew he was going off to Vietnam.

She'd brazenly put a hand on his thigh. "You'll be okay, Hop."

"Yeah," he'd nodded, somewhat unconvincingly. "Yeah."

It's all a blur now, but somehow one lingering glance had turned into a kiss—she couldn't tell you who leaned in first, but she'd place her money on Hopper—and a kiss had turned into tearing each other's clothes off in the backseat.

The quiet ding breaks her from her thoughts and just like that the amusement is gone, replaced once more with a bundle of nerves. She taps her fingers against her thigh, closes her eyes, and forces herself to take a breath.

 _Get yourself together, Joyce_ , she tells herself.  _It's probably negative_.

The late period and constant throwing up tells her that's wishful thinking, but she's also been stressed with the prospect of getting a job after graduation. Stress takes a toll on the body and could very easily mimic the same symptoms.

Yeah, stress.

With every ounce of courage she can muster she steels herself, forcibly drags her feet across the tile floor and stands in front of the sink. Still she stares straight ahead, at her own reflection instead of the tiny plastic stick sitting atop a paper towel.

"On the count of three," she whispers to herself with a reassuring nod. "One."

She takes a breath.

"Two."

Her eyes close, knuckles going white where they grip onto the edge of the counter top.

"Three."

Biting back the anxiety curling around her ribs, her head dips, eyes trailing to the offending object. With shaky hands she picks it up, stares at the results.

"Shit."

* * *

Joyce's fingers thrum nervously in front of her, knees bouncing beneath the tabletop. It's been about a week since she took the test and her entire body is still on edge, the initial shock giving way to something like panic.

"What was so urgent?" Karen says as soon as she slides into the booth, looking expectantly at her friend.

The burger joint is practically empty, but that's not exactly surprising for 11am on a Sunday. It's precisely why she's chosen to meet here in the first place; very few people to hear what she has to say. And good burgers.

When she doesn't say anything, Karen snaps her fingers. "Joyce," she says, and the girl in question blinks, stares at her. "What are we doing here?"

"I'm hungry."

She's already ordered and she gives a small smile to the waitress who brings her food over. Joyce already knew Karen wouldn't want anything from here this early, and so she'd just gotten herself a burger and fries.

"It's not even noon," Karen says, eyeing her suspiciously.

Joyce shrugs. "You're allowed to be hungry before noon, Karen."

"Yes,” she say slowly, “but you never choose burgers and fries for your breakfast."

"Lunch."

"Whatever." She waves a dismissive hand, then points a finger. "Something's up."

Joyce chews slowly, keeps her eyes downcast, purposely looking anywhere but at her friend. She brought her here to tell her, knows she has to tell her—has to tell  _someone_ , because it's driving her nearly insane—but she can't seem to spit it out.

Placing her burger back onto the plate, she brings a napkin up to her mouth, deliberately making all of her moves painfully slow.

"You're stalling," Karen says. One look at Joyce's face tells her something really is up, and this isn't just some breakfast-lunch outing between friends. "Come on, Joyce, whatever it is it can't be that bad."

Joyce huffs, lips curling into a sardonic smile. Taking a long, deep breath, she faces her friend, finally makes eye contact.

"I'm pregnant."

Karen's eyes nearly bulge out of her head, mouth hanging open. "Shit, maybe it  _is_ that bad," she gapes, back-peddling at the look on Joyce's face. "I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm surprised. Joyce Horowitz, I never..."

"Yeah, me either," she grumbles, shoving a french fry into her mouth.

"Who? Lonnie?"

She grimaces. "Hopper..."

"Jim Hopper," Karen says slowly, waits for her nod of confirmation. As if there are any other Hoppers they know. "When?"

"Your graduation party, so really, I have  _you_ to thank for this."

Her friend holds her hands up. "Hey now, I told you to have a little fun, not to go shack up with Jim Hopper in, what, the backseat of his car?"

"Stop saying his name like that," Joyce mutters, but doesn't deny that it was in the backseat of his car. Technically it was the backseat of his _dad's_ car, but she feels the distinction would be pointless right now.

"Like what?"

"Like he's the worst possible guy I could've slept with."

"You're right," Karen amends. "That would be Lonnie and you've already slept with him."

Joyce groans, drops her head into her open palms.

"What are you going to do about him, by the way? 'Hey, I know we're back together and everything but I'm having another guy's baby'?"

"No," she says, leaning back in her seat. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna tell him it's his."

Karen blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"

"We got back together a few days after graduation, after he apologized for being an ass." She ignores Karen's eye roll; she knows how she feels about her boyfriend. "We went back to his place and we... he was drunk and fell asleep before anything happened, but _enough_ happened that I know I can convince him we slept together."

"I don't know if I'm hearing you correctly. I mean, Joyce... what about Jim?"

Her chest tightens at the mention of his name. "What about him?"

"You're not going to tell him?"

Joyce purses her lips, plucking another fry from her plate as her knees continue to bounce. "He's in Vietnam, Karen. He's gone," she says. With each word that comes out of her mouth she's justifying this, trying to reassure herself that this is the right choice. "Besides, he might—he might not come back."

"Joyce."

"He might not," she repeats, even if it nearly takes the breath from her throat. She and Hopper may have an unconventional friendship but it was a friendship nonetheless and she wants him to return in one piece. "And even if he does, he'll be some big shot cop in a city. He told me a while ago, before Vietnam, that that was what he hoped. What am I supposed to do, show up at his house with a baby as a welcome home present?"

"When his going away gift was a nice fuck, I mean..."

" _Karen_."

The girl sighs, nods at her. "I just want to make sure you've thought this through, that's all," she says, and Joyce relaxes, offers her a smile.

"I have," she says, and it's only a half-lie.

"Okay then." Karen lets it drop, and then she sees her lips curl into a smile. "So, how was he?"

Joyce laughs with a shake of her head. "Karen," she squeaks, looking around to make sure none of the other patrons can hear their conversation. Thankfully, they're all too far away and engrossed in their own meals. Karen gives her an imploring look and she rolls her eyes. " _Good_ , okay?"

She feels lighter having told someone. Of course, she hasn't told her parents, or Lonnie, or anyone other than Karen, but having even one person know seems to take a little of the burden from her shoulders.

Her thoughts go back to Jim Hopper, who's currently serving overseas while she sits in a diner, carrying the child he'll never know about. Her hands unconsciously slide to her stomach, fingers splayed over the still-flat skin.

Taking one final steeling breath, she tells herself this is for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hawkins, fourteen years ago_

Balancing a three year old Jonathan on her hip, lest he wander too far, Joyce does her best to grab a few items from the shelves and toss them into the shopping basket. She doesn't get everything she should, doesn't really have the money right now, but she makes sure to prioritize everything Jonathan needs.

Her job at the local hardware store doesn't exactly pay the bills; she may spend weeks eating smaller meals or going without the basics, but if one thing's certain she makes damn sure her son never does.

"Joyce, hey."

Turning, she smiles to find Karen standing on the other side of the aisle. "Hi," she says, hoisting Jonathan higher on her hip.

"How are you?"

She hasn't seen Karen in a while, most of her time taken up by her day job or being a full-time mom, but it's always nice to see a friendly face. Most of the town isn't as forthcoming. Ever since they caught wind of her pregnancy, straight out of high school no less, she's been the talk of the town. Everything she did was suddenly fodder for gossip. She'd get disapproving looks and tuts from those she passed, the prevalence only increasing the more she began to show. Now, even three years down the line, she still notices people whispering when they see her out and about. It's worse when she has Jonathan with her.

Lonnie, though, they pity.  _Poor boy, so young, future ruined_.

She should probably feel guilty for having imposed this life upon him when he technically has nothing to do with it.  _Should_ , but she doesn't; instead, she feels anger. At him for showing his true colors and disappearing when this is, for all intents and purposes, their child, and at the town for parading her as the local slut and him as a pariah.

"I'm good," Joyce answers, offering a small smile. "Doing my best."

"You’re one of the strongest people I know, Joyce. Everything else will blow over." Karen rolls her eyes, waves a hand. "Screw them."

"Didn't you hear? I already have."

Her friend's face softens. "No one who knows you believes that shit, Joyce." Karen smiles then, reaches out to ruffle Jonathan's hair. "Hi, buddy."

Jonathan smiles and hides his face in his mother's neck, shy.

"He looks like him."

Joyce stiffens a little, sighs. "I know," she murmurs.

As her boy gets older he's starting to look more and more like his father. He has her dark eyes but much else comes from Hopper; the shape of his face, the slope of his little nose, and most notably his blonde hair. She thinks it'll darken with age, change to a lighter brown, but right now it resembles the old photographs she's seen of Hopper as a child. Her heart lodges itself uncomfortably in her throat every time she thinks too intensely about it.

Karen regards her strangely, something very  _off_ showcased in her body language, in the way she purses her lips. If she knows her friend like she thinks she does, this can only mean one thing: she has something to say but she doesn't know how to, or if she should.

It's never stopped her before—Karen's known for her blunt comments—but with Joyce she's always been a little more reserved when it comes to sensitive topics, more concerned with how she'd feel.

"He's back, you know."

Her heart stutters in her chest. She didn't know, but she's not exactly kept apprised on the latest town rumblings. As someone who's frequently at the center of such gossip, she generally ignores them all together. Perhaps keeping slightly in the loop wouldn't be a bad thing; it'd keep her from more near-panic attacks in the middle of the grocery store.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

Joyce clears her throat. "I'm—I'm glad he made it back."

She pushes back the feeling deep in her gut, the one that wants to weep knowing he's okay, that he's come back from war in one piece. The one that's equally anxious and absolutely terrified to run into him.

Her friend sighs. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm... gonna keep living my life, Karen. I really am happy he's back; I never wanted him to  _not_ come back. But it doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything," Karen argues.

Shoppers pass the two of them and Joyce turns her attention back to Karen with a pointed look.

"Can we not have this conversation right here?"

"Fine. Ring your stuff up and meet me outside. My car, five minutes."

Before she can even decline Karen's gone, trotting back into the parking lot with one last look over her shoulder.

* * *

Joyce settles Jonathan into Karen's backseat and hands him a small toy, runs a hand down his back as he occupies himself. Crawling back into the front, she allows herself to slump into the material.

"Okay, what."

"You should tell him."

She takes a deep breath, lets her eyes fall closed. "We've had this conversation. You know I'm not telling him."

Karen groans. "Joyce. He's  _back_. He made it through the war and he's back in Hawkins, not in some big city like you said he would be. And if I remember correctly, those are two of the reasons you gave me for keeping him in the dark."

Okay, so she can't dispute Karen's accusations. They're true. But it doesn't matter; he's only just returned, which means he's likely just stopping through on his way to more exciting things. She won't disrupt that, not now, three years after the fact.

She doesn’t tell Karen, but he wrote her. Twice.

She never replied, never knew what to say. She didn't know how to keep a correspondence with him without telling him the truth. Lying is much easier from afar, contained in the small bubble of Hawkins while he’s thousands of miles away, but something about writing letters and purposely omitting the detail made it worse. Made it more real.

The inability to write mere pleasantries in a letter had overridden the guilt she felt ignoring them, the guilt she still feels, and so she never sent one back.

"It doesn't matter," Joyce counters. Holding up a hand, she halts her friend's rebuttal and lowers her voice. "Lonnie is Jonathan's dad. I'm not going to start another fight with him or confuse my son, and I  _really_ don't need to give these piranhas in town any more reason to talk about me."

"I'm just trying to look out for you."

"I know," she promises. "And I appreciate it, but this is... this is what I've chosen, okay? This is how it's going to be."

Karen, accepting her defeat, gives a small sigh. "Okay," she nods. "Okay."

"Thank you." Joyce revels in one final moment of relaxation against the plush interior before she pushes herself from the seat. "I have to go. Jonathan needs to go down for a nap."

Grabbing her son from where he's murmuring to himself, toy in hand, she shuts the door. She glances back into the window and gives Karen a small wave before departing.

The topic's not brought up again.

* * *

Almost three months is how long it takes for her to finally run into him.

Joyce is stocking up on a few last minute Christmas decorations, replacing the ones Jonathan had dropped and shattered or otherwise deconstructed, when she exhales on a frustrated groan. She takes a step back, trying desperately to reach a wreath strung up on a high shelf, and bumps into someone behind her.

"Oh sorry, I—"

"Joyce?"

Her entire body freezes. She doesn't have to spin around to know who she's accidentally collided with; she knows that voice. Her insides turn into Olympic gymnasts, stomach doing somersaults as she forces herself to turn around. As suspected, she finds herself face to face with Jim Hopper for the first time in over three years.

She'd laugh at how comically wide his eyes are if she wasn't certain hers look identical.

"Hop, hi."

Guilt floods her system the second his surprise gives way to genuine joy. He's happy to see her. Even after she ignored all of his communication, after she pointedly didn't seek him out after hearing of his return.

"Hi. How uh... how are you?"

"I'm good." She's wracked with anxiety, barely making ends meet, and more or less single parenting the child he doesn't know he has, but... "Yeah, I'm good."

Hopper rakes a hand through his hair. "Good, that's good."

"How about you, I mean—you're the big war hero around here after all."

He shrugs, gives a noncommittal grunt. "I wouldn't go that far," he says, and something shifts.

She can see the toll Vietnam has taken on him; it shows in the bags under his eyes, the lines of his face, the pallor of his skin. Hell, she has all the same traits but doesn't have the excuse of war to back them up.

Balancing her basket against her hip, she looks up at him. "Still didn't answer my question."

"I'm about as okay as I can be, Joyce."

Nodding, she accepts this. It's about as much as she expects to get out of him; he's never been one to open up, even as a teenager. Even less when the matter at hand dealt with emotions, and so she gets it.

"I'm glad you made it back, Hop," she murmurs, voice quiet. As shaky as being in his presence right now makes her, she remembers those talks they'd have in his dad's car, how he wondered if he'd be coming home.

He gives her an almost uncomfortable smile. "Me too, most days," he jests, and she rolls her eyes. "Not for long, though."

"No?"

"I'm actually heading to New York at the start of the new year," Hop says, nodding along with his words. "Got a cop position waiting for me."

Her brows raise, mouth open. "Oh, Hop," she breathes, a smile curling at the edges of her lips. "That's—that's great, I'm happy for you. Always said you'd get out of Hawkins."

"Get a desk plaque and everything," he laughs, shaking his head.

She was right, and she almost wishes Karen were here to hear it for herself. Hop's only here for another month at most, already moving onto bigger and better things out in New York City, far away from their small fishbowl town.

All throughout high school, in the time she's known him, he'd tell her of plans to get out and move to a city. He never specified where, just  _somewhere that isn't this place_ , he'd say. Manhattan is about as far removed from this place as you can get, she'd wager. And she is happy for him; knowing he's doing good things allows her to justify her decision a little more.

"If only our teachers could see you now."

Hop scoffs. "Mr. Cooper's probably rolling in his grave right now knowing I'm actually making something of myself."

"Mr. Cooper's not  _dead_ , Hop."

"Old enough, though." He waves a dismissive hand and she snorts. "What about you, Joyce? Any big plans to move out of this hellhole?"

"No big plans yet," she manages, keeping her voice even. She’s evidently not that great at schooling her features, not if the borderline concerned look Hopper gives her is indication. "One day, though. Can't stay here forever."

Joyce considers telling him about being a mother; she wonders if he knows and he's just not bringing it up. She could leave it out, but figures it'll be less suspicious if she just mentions it now, if she's the one he hears it from. 

They were— _are_ , she has to remind herself—good friends, and good friends share this kind of information with each other.

"I actually... I have a son."

His eyes widen just a fraction. Huh, so he really didn’t know. 

"You—wow, Joyce."

His eyes trail down her petite frame, land on her stomach.

"I'm not pregnant  _now_ ," she laughs, drawing her fingers upwards in an attempt to readjust his gaze.

"Sorry." He clears his throat. "That's good. I’m sure you’re a great mom."

A little taken aback by his statement, she blinks, hikes her basket higher on her arm. "Oh, thank you."

To his credit, and maybe for both of their benefit, he doesn't bring up Lonnie. The distaste is clear in the etchings of his face, the way she knows he's thinking about who the father is, knows it's Lonnie because he knows they're still together. She almost wants to blurt it out, wants to tell him to wipe that sour look off of his face because  _he's_ the father, but then she remembers why she's doing it.

It's for him, and it's what's best for everyone, really.

"I'll let you get back to your shopping," Hopper says finally. He moves away before turning back, leaning past her to reach far above her head. She's confused until he takes another step from her and hands over the wreath she was trying to grab before. "Here, Horowitz."

She's not a Horowitz anymore, but she doesn't correct him.

"Thanks.” She gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I'll uh—I'll see you around, Hop."

"Take care of yourself, Joyce."

She doesn't see him again before he moves out to Manhattan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long Hopper was in Vietnam but assume it was longer than three years, so there are some obvious timeline liberties being taken. Both with that and the story as a whole really, so I hope that's not too big a problem for you guys! 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and sweet comments x


	3. Chapter 3

_Hawkins, ten years ago_

The first time Hopper sees Jonathan is the in the department store during the one and only time he visits from New York. 

His mom is ill—Joyce has heard the rumblings in town—and no one's sure how much longer she has. She's always liked his mother; the older woman has been nothing but sweet to her, back when she was in high school with her son and even after she'd been made out as the town's harlot. When news of her declining health spread, Joyce made sure to send her a basket of muffins. It wasn't much, but it was all she could afford and she got a lovely, shakily written thank you letter in return.

The boy is running through the aisles in search of the toy section, the level of enthusiasm exuding from him only capable of a small child, and he nearly knocks into Hopper's legs.

"Hey, kid," the man bellows, his voice enough to have the seven year old freezing in his spot, eyes wide. Hopper bends a little. "Where are your parents?"

Jonathan blinks. "My mom is shopping."

"Okay. And where would that be?" When the boy gives a vague gesture somewhere to their left, he sighs. Being a detective in the city has put him on high alert; this may be Hawkins, and everyone knows nothing of substance ever happens here, but kids still shouldn't be running around by themselves. "Let's go find her, huh?"

"Okay."

As they walk through the store, Hopper looking out for anyone who could possibly be his mother, he glances down. He's a small kid but there's a fire to him, a quiet defiance in the way he refuses to hold his hand.

"What's your name?" 

The kid doesn't look up at him. "Jonathan."

The sound of a whimpering child brings his attention back to the present. He's about to ask Jonathan what his mother's name is, so they can call it over one of the speakers, when he’s beat to the punch by the panicked yell of his name. 

It’s a familiar voice, but it doesn’t register right away.

" _Jonathan!_ "

Joyce, with the source of the agitated whimpering propped on her hip, paces into view, eyes wide. She barely has time to pay attention to who it is her son is with; she’s more focused on how the mere sight of him has her breathing slowly returning to normal. Of course, once her heart rate slows and she’s able to get a good look at the man, it skyrockets once more.

Standing in front of her, a hand on her son's shoulder, is Hopper. Seeing the two of them together is so jarring it threatens to steal her breath away. As predicted, Jonathan’s hair has darkened from its ashy blonde and is now more of a light brown, but they still look similar. Father and son, only neither know it. 

Her stomach rolls, but Will's low noises of annoyance are enough to momentarily distract her from the panic attack crawling its way through her system.

"Jonathan, sweetie, come here," she says, opening one arm to pull him into her chest. "You can't run off like that, okay? You'll give me a heart attack."

The boy gives her a sheepish look. "Sorry, Mom. I wanted to look at the toys."

"I know, baby, okay, but just let me know next time and we'll stop there for you to look," she tells him, unsteady fingers threading through his hair.

When she'd turned around and Jonathan was nowhere to be found she nearly collapsed, fear immediately curling its way around her ribs. He could've been lost or kidnapped or  _worse_ , all because she spent thirty seconds looking at a blouse she wasn't even going to buy.

"I take it this belongs to you," Hopper teases, breaking the ice.

_Belongs to you, too_.

Joyce gives him a half-hearted smile, hand now firm on her boy’s back. "Yeah. Thanks for bringing him back. This is Jonathan. And this here," she says, bouncing the toddler on her hip, "is Will. He's being a little fussy today."

Hop smiles, takes a step forward. "Didn't know you had another kid. How old's he?"

"Almost three."

"My daughter, she's uh—she's about the same age, actually," he says, and Joyce's eyes fly to his.

She didn't know he had a kid, though she supposes she doesn’t know much about his post-Hawkins life.

"You have a daughter?" she asks, the surprise evident.

"Sara."

Nodding, Joyce comments on how pretty of a name it is. She notices a wedding band on his finger but doesn't mention it, doesn't feel it's the right moment. Not in the clothing section of a department store with her son babbling unhappily into her shoulder.

As she adjusts her grip on Will her jacket sleeve rises, and she thinks nothing of it until she notices Hop's face harden.

"What..."

"What are those?"

Confused, she looks down to where he's staring and—oh. She quickly pulls the sleeve back down into place, tightens her hold on Will's small body.

"Nothing," she deflects, using the most convincing smile she can manage.

It falls a little short, and Hopper shakes his head. 

"That's not nothing, Joyce. Those are bruises.”

“I’m clumsy; you know that.” 

“Unless you had a run-in with a doorknob with  _fingers_ , that’s not you being clumsy," he seethes, lowering his voice. 

It's not as if the town isn't catching wind of her bruises, the makeup not doing much despite her best efforts and excuses of clumsiness only getting her so far. Now when they whisper it’s out of pity, too, mixed with the usual tuts of disapproval. 

"It's nothing, really. It was an accident."

"An accident named Lonnie. He's a jackass," he returns, mumbling a belated apology when she cuts her eyes to Jonathan. "He shouldn't be putting his hands on you."

“Mom?” 

Running a hand along his upper back, she nods towards the shelf of toys right in her eye-line. “Why don’t you go look at those toys, baby? But stay where I can see you.” Once he’s scurried away, Joyce purses her lips and turns back to the man in front of her. "It's not like that."

"What's it like, then? He just uses you as a punching bag when the gym's closed?"

Anger boils beneath her skin. "You don't know  _anything_ about my relationship, Hopper. You can't just come back here and assume you do and go around throwing this shit out—"

"Maybe I don't," he concedes, nodding, "but I do know Lonnie, in case you forgot. I know how much of a dick he was back in high school, both to you and to everyone around him. You looked past it then, and I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he never laid a hand on you, but you sure as hell shouldn't be looking past it now."

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

It's none of his business. She knows Lonnie can be a shitty husband, and yeah he’s a little rough when he’s angry, a little violent when he gets drunk, but he's still her boys’ father. He’s not all bad, and she has no intentions on breaking up her family over a few bruises.

It’s nothing she can’t handle, and he’s apologetic in the aftermath. If he ever hit her kids, she'd leave. She  _will_ leave if he so much as thinks about it, but she can deal.

Turning her back on Hopper, she walks over and tugs Jonathan's hand even as he looks over his shoulder, eyeing the man left in their wake.

"I hope you don't end up in the hospital," is what he calls out, a little petty, but she doesn't slow. If she slows down she'll stop, and if she stops she'll turn around, and if she turns around he'll see the tears burning at the backs of her eyes.

She vaguely hears him say something quieter as she moves further from him, something softer, but she’s too far away to make it out.

* * *

Hopper's mother dies and Joyce does end up in the hospital.

He's still around for the funeral, and by some unlucky force of fate he also happens to be in the hospital at the same time she's finally cleared to leave. It's just a few bumps and bruises, a fractured wrist from the fall, but she's fine.

It's what she tells him when the look of concern he gives her threatens to cleave her in two.

"It was an accident," she says, but her heart's not in it and she knows he doesn't believe her anyway. "Just a fracture."

Her jacket draped over her good arm, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

"Next time it won't just be a fracture, Joyce." His voice is so quiet she doesn't even have it in her to be angry this time. "You were right last month. I don't know shit about your relationship, okay? But I know the way Lonnie treats you is wrong."

"I'm—"

"Don't say okay," he warns, shaking his head. "That’s  _not_ okay, and you don't want your boys to grow up without a mother. You can’t take care of them if you don’t take care of yourself first."

That hits hard, and she knows he meant it to. She'd do anything for her boys, including give her life, and Hopper knows that. They'd be in worse hands with Lonnie, but a sick part of her knows he’d never do anything drastic to her because then he’d have full custody of the boys. He’d never be able to do that; he’d never  _want_ to, anyway. 

He’s not a terrible father; he’s by no means father of the year, but at least he’s been sticking around more following their last screaming match. She told him he’s never there for his kids and he stormed out. But this time, he’s been coming back.

The fact that he seems to be trying, even a little, is what’s keeping her on his side. That and the money, because while he does jack shit to actually help with the boys, he does buy food and make sure the electricity stays on. 

Hopper looks like he's waiting for a rebuttal, an argument, but she's not in the mood for another fight, doesn't have it in her. Instead, she drops her shoulders and lifts tired eyes to him.

"I know," she murmurs. "I will; I am."

He's clearly surprised by her response but he nods, his expression marginally more content at her word. "Good."

There's a silence that blankets the two of them, Joyce standing with a cast on her wrist and a jacket dangling precariously by the arm, and Hopper clutching a tin can of cookies that looks so out of place in his large hands she almost laughs.

"How are you?" she asks quietly.

It's been two weeks since his mother's death, a week since the funeral, and she hates to say she's surprised he's still hanging around. She supposes it's only until he gets her things in order, but she expected him to bolt the second he was free to.

There's been no sighting of his daughter or wife, not that she’s aware of, and so she assumes they're still back in New York. She wonders why they didn’t accompany him for the trip, but doesn’t ask.

His knuckles white out around the cookie tin. "Okay," he says, but just like her  _it’s fine_  it's a lie. They're both good at that. "My mom, she um... she asked me to bring cookies to the nurses who helped her out here, before... well, before. I didn't do it when she asked, but now it seems..."

"Wrong not to?" she fills in.

"Yeah, something like that."

"I'll let you get to it then."

“Cookie?” He shoves the tin towards her, the movement disjointed. “I didn’t uh— I didn’t make them, but they’re pretty good.” 

Huffing a laugh, she slowly plucks one from the top of the pile. “Didn’t think you did. Never were a baker.” Joyce looks at him. “Thank you.”

It gets the tiniest of laughs from him, barely there at all really, but it’s something and she’ll take it. 

“Neither of us were. That home ec class?” 

Wincing, a low groan escapes her throat. “They shouldn’t have put flammable cloths so close to where we were baking. How were we supposed to know?” 

The memory pours over the two of them, and for a moment they’re not in the hospital, not grieving a mother and ignoring the actions of an abusive husband. They’re just Joyce and Hopper, two friends whose poor kitchen skills almost burned down their home economics classroom that one time.

It’s broken a few minutes later, but the brief reprieve is welcomed.

Joyce’s jacket slides from her arm and Hopper reaches out before she has a chance to grab at the material, catches it before it slides to the tiled floor. She expects him to situate it back on her arm or over her cast, but instead he drapes it around her shoulders.

“It’s cold out, and you’re still small as hell.” He clears his throat. "Take care of yourself, okay? I mean it."

The meaningful look he gives her doesn't match the somber atmosphere hovering around the two of them. It doesn’t match who they are, or at least who they used to be, so lively and vibrant, firecrackers in an open field. 

She returns with a nod, a tiny upwards curl of her lips. 

"I’m sorry, Hop."

There are so many reasons to be sorry she doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all lovely, thank you x 
> 
> In reading through what I have written of this thus far, I've realized it does kind of have a sad overtone. I promise there are moments of light thrown in, and it's by no means meant to be a sad story, but more about the journey of these two in intervals before we get to the present (which is coming soon - it's not all flashbacks).


	4. Chapter 4

_Hawkins, four years ago_

When Hopper comes back to Hawkins for good, it's alone and with little soul left. Word gets around quick in such a small town, and Joyce learns of his daughter's death soon after he arrives.

She doesn't run into him (this is mostly intentional, if she's being honest) but she sees him milling around town, hands stuffed in his pockets and gaze steadfastly avoiding anyone else's. He doesn't speak so much as he grunts, ignores all attempted conversations, and disappears back to wherever it is he's staying. His mother’s house was sold not too long after she died, so she imagines he must have a place of his own somewhere. 

He's always handled grief differently; or really, he’s always showed his grief differently. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Even as a teenager, he always had to act tough and pretend nothing bothered him.

The only time she can remember him openly showing his emotions is when she’d collapsed in the fall of senior year. It was just dehydration and mild malnutrition, Joyce too stressed about the impending graduation and everyone’s expectations to even think about eating, but Hopper freaked out.

She remembers feeling funny, blinking to re-focus her sudden blurred vision, and then the last thing she saw was the fear on his face. When she’d woken up in a hospital bed he was there, despite it still being school hours. He’d left and followed the ambulance in his dad’s car. After the doctor’s played a game of twenty questions, still not convinced she wasn’t purposely starving herself despite her assurances that she just can’t eat when she’s stressed, she’d let Hopper drive her home.

By the stricken look on his face you’d think she died. She'd never passed out like that before, so she supposes he thought she did. 

She'd heard from other students after her return about how panicked he was, how some of them even swore he was tearing up as he tried to get her to wake, as he yelled for someone to call 911. 

Looking back, she tries not to think too hard about how the one time he’d showed any sort of grief in their teenage years, it was for her.

With his mother the grief was more subdued. He didn’t want people fussing over him, giving him condolences he felt awkward receiving. She knows his mother’s death hit him hard, but she also knows he tried not to let that show. 

Even so, she knows as well as anyone else that children are something entirely different.

If she lost one of her boys she'd be beside herself, completely unable to cope. And little Sara was about Will's age, a year younger maybe. So young and with her entire life ahead of her.

Joyce doesn't seek him out, even after he’s been back for a while. She doesn't know what to say so she’d rather say nothing at all, but she hopes he can feel the good vibes she's willing his way.

"Tragic, really," a townswoman says to her one day inside the store. Joyce follows her line of sight to Hopper, slumped against the side of his truck.

She clears her throat. "Yeah. It's so sad."

"He's been spending all of his time down at the bar. I've seen Barry shoving him into his backseat multiple times, forced to drive him home."

Her heart cracks in her chest. He's been known to have a beer or two when things got tough, but that he's intentionally blacking out to forget Sara's death is heartbreaking.

Putting the woman's items in a bag, she offers her a smile. "It must be difficult."

"I'm sure, dear. Well, have a good day."

Joyce continues to stare at Hopper through the window. His back is against his driver's side door, his face covered by his hands for a few seconds before he runs his fingers through his disheveled hair.

Broken from the spell when a customer plops their items on the conveyor belt, Joyce forces her gaze away from the window and shoots the older gentleman a smile.

* * *

"Mom! Mom!"

"What, what?" she questions, amusement in her tone as she turns towards the voice.

Will comes barreling into the kitchen, a piece of paper clutched in his hands. The eight year old nearly slams into her legs when he reaches her, looking up with a grin on his face. She ruffles his hair and runs a hand down the back of his head.

"Look what I drew," he says, beaming at her when she takes the paper from his hands. "It's us!"

It's a drawing of four figures, all huddled around a Christmas tree. She ignores the pang of bitterness in her chest at the Lonnie stick figure in the picture. Not because he was included, not because Will’s innocent adoration for his father makes her angry, but because Lonnie doesn’t deserve it. Her boy still loves his father and she can’t fault him for that; she just wishes Lonnie would even attempt to show that he loves his son back.

"It's beautiful, baby," Joyce says, smiling down at him. "It'll go right onto the fridge next to your others."

Will's face brightens at that and her heart swells. She hangs them all, and when the fridge runs out of room she moves the older drawings into her bedroom, but his small chest still puffs with pride with each one.

"The tree looks exactly like our tree."

He's so proud that she can't keep the corners of her lips from curling upwards, even if that means his drawing of a tree is just as scraggly and sad looking as their real one. It's not the best tree; it's tiny and more sparse than a Christmas tree should be, but it's the best one she could afford this year.

The boys don't seem to mind, though. Jonathan's been helping Will decorate, reaching up to the branches that his little brother can't just yet, and both of her boys are thrilled to even have a tree. For that, she's grateful.

"It does. You're very talented, Will," she says, bopping his nose with her index finger. He grins. "Now you go wash up for dinner, okay?"

When Will scampers off towards the bathroom, she hangs his drawing onto the fridge with a magnet. Placing the dish cloth onto the counter for a moment—she'll come back to take the pot pie from the oven in a few minutes—she wanders into the living room to find Jonathan sitting on the couch, book in hand.

"What are you up to?"

He looks up. "Reading."

"I see that, silly."

"It's  _And Then There Were None_ ," he shrugs. "They had a box of books at school, and they said we could take one home to read if we wanted to."

Joyce nods. "Good so far?"

She hasn't read it, of course, but she's always interested to hear what her boys think of the things they read. Jonathan especially, who reads at a more advanced pace than his eighth grade level.

"It's pretty cool," he says. "It's a mystery about a group of people who go to this island and they’re all getting killed off one by one, but they’re the only people on the island so they all become suspicious of each other."

Her mouth opens, eyes widen in response. "Oh wow, that sounds... interesting. Kind of scary though, don’t you think?"

Jonathan shakes his head. "I don’t think so."

“So grown up,” she muses, brushing his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready, so why don’t you put down your killer book and help me set the table.”

"Sure," he laughs, closing the book after dog-earing the page.

Pulling the pot pie from the oven, a soft ' _ah ah ah_ ' falls from her lips as the glass threatens to burn her palm through the old oven mitt.

Jonathan grabs the plates from the cabinet and puts them onto the table, sets three spaces for each of them. When Will finally bounces back from washing up, he’s instructed by his brother to get the silverware. 

Joyce puts dinner on the table for her boys and finally,  _finally_ allows herself to sit down. She’s animated as she listens to them tell her about their day at school and everything exciting that's happened. When Jonathan asks if she had a good day at work, she does her best not to let her thoughts wander back to the man with the crumbling life standing against his old truck.

* * *

Nearly five months after Hopper’s return, Joyce notices him sitting on a bench in the park while she's out for a walk. It's not something she gets to do often, not with two boys and a full time job, but with Will and Jonathan both at friends’ houses she finally has some time to herself.

She stands in the shadows for a few minutes, contemplating. Should she go up to him? Say something? But what do you say to someone who's lost everything?  _Sorry_ seems so insufficient, a little useless. Sorry won’t bring his daughter back or save a marriage that, if the gossip is to be believed, is on the verge of dismantling.

After going back and forth, she decides to just bite the bullet. She'll have to talk to him eventually, especially if he is here for good, and like she reminded herself last time—they were friends. 

Sidling up to the bench, she pauses, rolls her shoulders back. 

"Hey," she says quietly.

It takes him a few seconds to register her voice, but then he turns his head, lifts his gaze to her. "Joyce."

"Mind if I...?" She gestures to the seat beside him. When he shakes his head, she lowers herself onto the chilled wood. They sit in silence for a few minutes, her hands in her lap and his braced on his knees, before she breaks it. "How are you?"

Hopper gives a mirthless laugh. "I'm doing just great."

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No," he sighs, scrubs his hands down his face. She notices the facial hair he hasn't yet shaved, the unruliness of the uncut strands that threaten to fall into his eyes. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Hop," she says firmly, reaching out to cover one of his hands with hers. "Nothing at all."

His smile doesn't come close to reaching his eyes, and his heart isn't in it, but he tries.

She sits with him for a few more minutes, holding his hand, allowing him to take comfort in her company. There are so many questions but she doesn't dare ask any of them, not now.

"She was my little girl, Joyce," he rasps a while later, and she's almost startled buy the sound of his voice. "My little girl."

"Hop, I'm—" What does she say to that? "She was beautiful."

She's seen photos once before, back when she was a little younger and Benny had gotten one in the mail. Her pre-school photo, she thinks. She looked like him, like Hopper, only so much more blonde and her eyes a more piercing blue.

"She really was," he says, his voice low. His fingers play with the blue elastic wrapped around his wrist.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks, and almost immediately regrets it.

It's a simple question, innocent, but hearing it out loud sounds almost rude.

"I don't know," he chokes out, an almost hysterical laugh. "What do you do when you have to bury your only child? When your little girl is gone?"

Joyce freezes, nerves turned to stone.  _Your only child_. She feels like a traitor, an impostor sitting here beside him while he mourns his daughter. How can she sit here and let him go on thinking he's just buried his only child when he has a healthy twelve year old son he knows nothing about.

Maybe she should, but she doesn’t say anything.

She can't.  _Sorry about your dead daughter, but surprise, Hop, you actually have a totally alive son, too_. No. If he ever finds out, it won't be in a time of mourning. She doesn’t want it to sound like she’s suggesting he simply replace Sara with Jonathan, like her absence is okay because he has a shiny new son right here.

Instead, she lets her hand fall to his back before wrapping around his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, rubbing between his shoulder blades through the fabric of his jacket. "I have no idea how you're feeling, and I won't pretend to, but it can't be easy. You're strong, Hop."

He huffs. "Strong. No,  _Sara_ was strong. I lied."

"What?"

Hopper doesn't look at her. "I told her it would be okay. I told her  _she'd_ be okay, and she wasn't."

"You can't blame yourself for that," she says, coaxing him to twist towards her even a little bit. "That's what every parent tells their kid because that's what they want to be true. You were giving her  _hope_. Letting her dwell on the worst wouldn't have been good for her."

"False hope."

"Maybe so, but she knew how much you loved her. Enough to hold onto that tiny shred of faith, no matter how hard it may have been."

Pulling his lips together, he offers a terse nod. "Yeah." There's a brief silence, and then, "How are your boys?"

She takes it for what it is, an out, and squeezes his shoulder. "They're good. Jonathan turns thirteen soon and Will is eight now."

"That the one who was screaming in the department store?"

"He wasn't  _screaming_ , but yeah. Much quieter now. He's a shy one."

Hopper hums, and she doesn't have to ask to know that he's thinking about what Sara would be like as she got older.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and the question catches her so off guard she laughs. He’s still muddling through hell and he’s asking if  _she’s_ okay? 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He actually turns to look at her now, assessing. After a not-so-subtle once over of her body, the skin exposed by her clothing, he returns his gaze to hers.

“No more trips to the hospital?”

She opens her mouth, surprised, and closes it again. "Uh, no. No." Shaking her head, she looks away for a moment. "I kicked him out, actually."

Joyce hasn’t told the boys. They only know that he's gone most of the time, and more often than not when he does come back he's drunk. She always kicks him right back out, which leads to more screaming, but she can’t let him stay. He's always been a violent drunk, but it’s gotten worse over the years and she doesn't need that around her kids.

She thinks Jonathan knows what's going on. It's written all over his too-mature face, the look in his eyes when he regards her sometimes, and she wants so badly to be be able to erase all of it from his mind. Make him unsee the things he's been exposed to and let him be a normal boy, one that has no worries about what's going on between his parents.

Will's still too young, still blissfully ignorant. She's grateful for his innocence, and for the way Jonathan protects his little brother and doesn't tell him.

"Good." Joyce hums in agreement. "What finally made you do it?"

At her silence, the way she wrings her hands in her lap, she watches his fist ball.

"Joyce, did he..."

She looks away.

"I'll kill him."

"Hop, no," she says then, sighing. "He didn't. He tried, but it... he didn't. He was drunk."

"That doesn't make it okay," he says, seething. His hatred for Lonnie has been around since high school, comes as no surprise, but she swears each time they talk it just escalates. 

Not that she can blame him.

"I  _know_ ," she snaps, then softens. "That's why I kicked him out."

Hopper considers her. "No."

"Excuse me?  _No?_ "

"As fucked as it is, you wouldn't have kicked him out if he just did something to you." Shit. She almost forgot how well he was able to read her back in high school, and it seems he hasn't lost his touch. She kind of hates it. "He hit one of the boys, didn't he?"

Joyce scrunches her nose. "Jonathan," she admits quietly. "I was out running an errand. I came back to screaming; Lonnie was furious, Will was hiding behind the couch and Jonathan was standing guard, keeping his father away. I walked in right before Lonnie slapped him, called him worthless."

Hopper's fist tightens. "I really will kill him."

She can’t tell if he’s projecting, if he wants to keep her son safe because he couldn’t save Sara, but that he cares at all about the boy—who may unknowingly be blood but whom he’s met only once before—spreads warmth through her body. 

"Jonathan's fine. He's a tough kid," she murmurs. "I threw Lonnie out, told him to go to one of his little girlfriends."

It's no secret Lonnie's been unfaithful. She knows, Hopper knows. Hell, the whole town knows. 

"You deserve better. Your boys, too."

She gives him a soft, appreciative smile.

"I should get going," she whispers, retracting her hand from his body. Standing, she shoves her hands in her pockets and turns towards him. "I'm uh... if you need anything, Hop, you can call me."

His lips quirk up a bit, the tiniest ghost of a smile, but it's genuine. "Yeah. You too."

Walking away, she tugs her hat further over her ears and ignores the fluttering of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued kindness x


	5. Chapter 5

_Hawkins, one year ago_  

Will goes missing and everything’s wrong. Her anxiety reaches a level excessive even by her own standards, each nerve ending frayed just beneath her skin. She can’t breathe most of the time, and when she does it’s uneven, her chest working with a weight collapsing down on her sternum.

Everything she’s ever known flips upside down, inside out. 

When she shows up in his office after having not spoken in so long, frazzled and on edge, she doesn’t know what to do with herself when he’s not there. She’d barreled past Flo at the front desk with half-jumbled explanations of her missing boy and needing to see Hopper, didn’t stop long enough for the woman to tell her he’s not in yet.

Waiting there for him to arrive is something like torture. Each passing minute feels like an hour, and over the erratic beating of her heart she can hear the second hand on the clock tick by. 

Tick, tick, tick. 

He's late, much later than she'd anticipated having to occupy herself in his office, and her entire body shakes. Her nerves are live wires just below the surface, ready to explode.

She knows how crazy she looks when he finally comes in, finds her standing there with her hands in front of her and doe eyes wide.

"What about the other time?"

"What?"

"You said, 99 out of 100. What about the other time? The  _one_ ," she says, begging him to get it, to understand that this isn't normal for her boy. He doesn't run away, he doesn't go off with his father without telling her. 

Or at all, for that matter.

No one believes her, certainly not Lonnie, not even Jonathan, and she's trying so desperately to get Hopper on her side. If he believes her she can... not  _relax_ , but let some of the weight fall from her shoulders. Lessen her emotional load knowing that someone's out there doing  _something_.

"Just find my son, Hop." It slips from her mouth somewhere between a demand and a plea. " _Find_ him."

* * *

Underneath the panic, the soul crushing fear that’s curled around her ribs since the moment she found an empty bedroom, is the second most dominant emotion.

Guilt.

Jonathan feels guilty because he was working, and Joyce feels guilty that he feels the need to work even when she’s working because they need the money. She feels guilty for not checking on her boy when she got home, something she  _always_ does, because it was a bad shift and she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to slip into some pajamas.

She feels guilty for leaving her boys alone at all, forced to work ridiculous, long hours to make ends meet. 

They deserve better, and maybe if things were different, if she were able to give them more, this wouldn’t have happened. She would have been home, or Jonathan wouldn’t have felt it necessary to take the extra shift, and someone would’ve been there for Will. 

The guilt is easier to focus on than the fear, the uncertainty of her boy’s fate, and so she latches onto it. Drowns in it, lets it consume her until Jonathan has to raise his voice in a way she’s never heard in his sixteen years. 

“Mom!” He hovers over where she’s slumped over the kitchen table. “You have to snap out of this. This isn’t going to help us find Will!” 

Joyce looks up at him with dark, hooded eyes, but can’t manage more than a small, choked sob she tries to muffle with her palm. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t have you shutting down on me, okay?”

“It’s my fault, Jonathan!” 

He rocks back. “What?”

“I should have been here for him, for Will, but I was at work, I'm _always_ at work and I...”

“So was I! You think I don’t feel guilty for taking that shift?”

“That’s not the same—”

“It is the same thing, Mom! If it’s your fault for working, then it’s my fault for working too. Are you saying it’s my fault Will is missing?”

Her eyes widen, head shaking immediately. “What? No, of course not.”

“Okay then,” Jonathan nods, his voice soft. “So you can’t blame yourself, either. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Honey, you don’t...”

“No,” he cuts her off, voice firm. “We couldn’t have known anything would happen. Will’s been on his own before and been completely fine.” 

She can’t dispute Jonathan, and she can’t repeat her belief that if she wasn’t working it could’ve been avoided without inadvertently blaming him as well, and so she lets his words settle. 

Chewing on her bottom lip, she leans into his embrace when he wraps an arm around her shoulder. 

She’s still guilty, still terrified and unable to breathe easily, but she has Jonathan. She has one of her boys and he may not believe the things she’s said, may think she’s losing her damn mind, but they’ll get through this together.

* * *

Hopper comes in with the other officers to tell her about the body, but she's barely listening, doesn't register much of what they're saying to her.

The quarry. A bike. Must've fallen in. Will. Pulled from the water.

It reaches her ears in snippets, all chopped up and making no sense. It makes no sense because Will isn't dead. He's alive, she knows he's alive. He’s told her as much. 

She can't even begin to accept anything else. 

The lights; he's talked to her through the lights, told her with one blink that he's alive. He's not safe, which sends another spark of terror through her system, but he's alive. She can cope with that. She just needs him to hang on a little while longer, wherever he is.

"Joyce," Hopper's voice cuts into the static, breaks her from her haze, but she continues to stare at the far wall. "Joyce. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Shaking her head, she wills  _him_ to understand with the pleading look in her eyes. "No. Whoever you found, it's not my boy. It's not Will."

But he doesn't seem to believe her. Still, he doesn't believe her, just looks at her with a stare that’s so similar to the one she gets from everyone in town. It’s not as pitying, no, but it’s still there. 

They don't believe her either, but supposes she never expected them to. She's just Joyce, crazy Joyce with the missing (or  _dead_ , as some of them have begun saying) son and public breakdowns. Joyce with the wild eyes and frantic mannerisms.

Jonathan comes forward, grabs hold of her shoulders. "Mom, please, you have to stop this," he says, his voice quiet but insisting, and she grabs him right back.

This isn’t the first time he’s told her to stop, but she  _can’t_.

When she grips Hopper's jacket, fingers fisted in the fabric, he tries to guide her back onto the couch. Jonathan runs into his room and she hates that he's upset, crying because of her and the things he doesn’t understand. 

She wants to go to him, comfort him even if she can’t comfort herself, but Hopper's still pushing her backwards, willing her to sit still.

"I swear, Hop, I'm not crazy," she hiccups, tears staining her cheeks as her eyes bore into his.

"I'm not saying you're crazy."

His voice is soft, so soft she could sink into it and find rest.

When his hands find purchase on her knees, grounding her, all she can do is continue to plead for him to listen to her.

* * *

She only goes to the morgue because of Jonathan. It's not Will, and she still knows it to be true, but Jonathan insists and she can't bear being the source of that sour look on his face again. 

And so she pulls her lips into a thin line, forces a smile, and gives him a curt nod. Agrees to come with.

When they pull the sheet back to reveal a body that looks like her son's, she reminds herself to remain calm. It's not him.

 _It’s not him_ , she tells herself, even as her heart beats against the cage of her ribs. 

 _It’s not him_ , she tells herself, even as the hairs on her arms stand at attention, a chill running down her spine.

Jonathan, tears in his eyes, covers his mouth with his hands and immediately takes off. For the bathroom or for home she doesn't know, but she can't take her eyes off of the body. 

 _It’s not him_ , she tells herself. She stands up, straightens her back and steels her resolve.

"He has a birth mark on his right arm, can you show that to me please?"

Ten minutes later she's still not done looking at the body, scrutinizing, but she knows she has to make sure Jonathan is all right. She tells the morgue assistant that she'll be back, and Joyce makes her way back through the sterile halls and towards the waiting room.

Stopping at the door, she takes a moment to peek through the small window. There have been reporters hanging around and she has no interests in running into one of them here.

Her breath catches in her throat, but it’s not a reporter she sees.

Jonathan didn't go home. 

He’s back in the waiting room, seated beside Hopper. She can't hear what they're saying through the door, but she watches as Hop reaches over and places a comforting hand on Jonathan's shoulder, forces the boy to look at him. He says something, and she can read in the stoicism that it’s serious but her son’s reaction tells her it’s positive, too. He nods back at the man, offers a watery smile.

Her chest tightens. The two of them, father and son, smiling at each other despite the hellhole of a situation they're in. Hopper offering words of comfort to Jonathan, enough to take that frown off of his face and slump from his shoulders even just for a moment.

Words of comfort Lonnie couldn’t be bothered to even consider when his youngest is missing, presumed dead.

That’s what Jonathan deserves. Someone to be there for him, to encourage him when she's falling apart and can't do it herself, despite how badly she wants to.

When Hopper squeezes his shoulder she lets out a tiny sob. He should know; they both should know, but now isn't the right time. It's quite possibly the worst time, actually. But they're bonding, and Hopper being there for her son right now is something she'll forever be grateful to him for.

Content that Jonathan is okay and in good hands with Hopper, she turns on her heel and heads back toward the impostor lying on a slab.

* * *

She nearly collapses when he tells her she's right, that she's been right all along. That that  _thing_ in the morgue isn't her boy, isn't Will.

She knew, of course, but now that he knows too... she's overcome with it. A choked sob crawls its way from her throat and a hand comes up to cover her mouth as tears fall onto her cheeks. Her body shakes with it, and Hopper’s hand curls around hers. 

She's been waiting so long for someone to say this, to understand. Figures it would be Hopper; somehow it's always him. It's always been him.

In high school when she needed someone to talk to, she'd never seek him out but somehow she’d always find him. In their spot between fifth and sixth period, or under the bleachers after a game, or sometimes she'd even find herself leaning against his car. She wouldn't realize until he showed up, and she'd be a little flushed and a lot embarrassed but he'd never call her out on it.

And then it became a habit.

He'd stay with her and let her talk it out, or other times he'd sit with her in silence. Sometimes that's what she needed, and he always seemed to know.

He always knew.

Hopper was always there for her, and though it's taken him a bit longer this time to get on the same page, he's here. He's here with her again, here for her, truly listening for the first time since this whole ordeal started.

They're partners once again, and Joyce can't help but think back to that time they ditched class and outran one of the teachers. They hid behind rows of lockers in the boys locker room— _this place smells like ass, Hop_ —and then relocated to the library until they could make a clean break.

"You're the worst influence, Hopper," she'd teased, sliding into the passenger seat of his car.

He'd turned to her, a dopey grin on his face. "You're the best partner in crime, Horowitz."

She can do without the crime, but partners sounds just fine.

* * *

Joyce notices little moments.

Jonathan eyeing Hopper as he helps set up the deprivation tank, the two of them hauling in bag upon bag of Epsom salt. The emotion on his face is hard to read, a cross between subdued anger and admiration, appreciation.

The two of them argue back and forth, for what she assumes is the second time if Jonathan's earlier scowl was because of the first. 

He wants to go with them into the upside down to get Will, and Hopper tells him no. He won't let him go; he's all Joyce has and he won't let him risk his life too. She can't lose both of them. 

Her eyes water as she listens to a conversation she’s very clearly not supposed to be hearing.

"I won't let anything happen to you, kid," Hopper tells him, firm, and Joyce's heart nearly stops.

He pulls Jonathan into a quick but crushing hug when they think no one else is around to watch. It's over almost as soon as it started but she can't help the small smile curling at the corners of her lips, can’t stop the fresh tears from spilling onto her cheeks.

“Her either,” Jonathan demands, his voice steel. “Nothing happens to her.”

“Never.”

Tips of her fingers tapping at her lip, she sneaks back away before either of them notice her peering from behind the brick.

He's a good father. Sara was lucky to have him for as long as she did, and she can tell by the way he interacts with Jonathan, despite the teen's best efforts to remain stoic, that he has a way with them.

He’d never admit it, of course, too busy keeping up with his stony facade. The hard-ass persona he puts on as the Chief.

Hopper's a father without a child, and even  _more_ guilt swirls around her system because it hits her all at once and it’s her fault.

It's her fault Jonathan doesn't have a dad around, her fault Hopper has no idea he's a parent to another child. Lonnie's always been weird with Jonathan, and he's ever been father of the year when it comes to Will, either, but it's different. She wonders if he could sense something was off from the beginning, or if he's just that much of an asshole.

He's never really showed any interest in him. Called him weak, useless, pathetic.

From what she's heard of Hopper's life with Sara, he was the complete opposite. Attentive, caring, head over heels in love with his daughter. Jonathan could've had that, but she took that chance away from him.

As she climbs into the passenger seat of his truck, her hands are cold and clammy. Her skin is pale and her heart thumps painfully in her chest, threatens to burst through her skin. She feels sick.

Hopper gives her a sideways look, a question in his eyes.  _Are you okay?_  She nods, offers the tiniest of smiles. It's barely anything at all, but it's all she can manage.

She knows he’ll chock it up to what they’re about to do, and he won’t question her odd behavior. Won’t push.

Hopper's helping her bring Will back, brave enough to travel into literal hell to save her boy, and she can't even muster up the courage to tell him they have a son.

She's a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to you all.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hawkins, present day_

Six weeks have passed since that  _thing_ was exercised from Will’s body, since El closed the gate, since Bob’s horrific death. The scenes replay in her nightmares and sometimes they’re worse than the reality, if that’s even possible. Sometimes they don’t get that shadow thing out of Will’s body in time, before the demodogs threaten to attack Hopper and El and the gate has to be closed. She loses him, and his limp body sags beneath her despite her best efforts to pull him into her chest, to beg him to wake up.

Sometimes it’s Bob’s death, which can’t get much more horrible, but it just replays in her mind when she closes her eyes. Sometimes it’s Hopper in Bob’s place, his body devoured by those monsters while he reaches out for her, and she jolts awake in a cold sweat, her heart racing. That's not something she chooses to analyze right now.

She hasn’t told anyone about the nightmares. Hopper's gone through his own hell, has his own stuff to worry about, and she won't burden him with her lingering problems. Will’s finally beginning to feel normal again, as per his words, and she couldn't be more thrilled.

He’s losing his demons, she’ll work on her own.

Jonathan will catch her in the kitchen some mornings, too early, when she can’t sleep and he’s trying to sneak off to a morning shift. She’d chastise him but she’s too tired and she knows he'll keep working anyway. He doesn’t ask her why she’s sitting at the table with a cigarette at 5:00 in the morning, dark circles beneath her eyes, and so she simply sends him off with a soft hug and whispered  _be careful_.

It’s sporadic, but sometimes it feels like they’re still back there. In the upside down. In that same constant state of anxiety. The edges of darkness still linger, weigh upon her body and mind, but she really is working towards letting it all go.

She’s not naive enough to think it’s truly over, that nothing will ever come of this weird two year experience, but for now her boy is safe. If she doesn’t wind herself down soon she's not sure what'll happen. Her body will inevitably give out on her; she's put it through hell lately, both literally and figuratively.

She’ll short-circuit or something.

Since Will’s doing better he’s also been opening up. It’s little by little, and though she’d love to hear all of his thoughts and know exactly how he’s feeling, she’s content to wait him out. Against her better judgement she’s been getting better too, been giving him some more of the freedom he requests.

As much as she wants to hover, to keep him in her line of sight and make sure he’s okay at all times, she knows she can’t.

He’s getting older, and if he can muster up the courage to go out on his own after everything that’s happened, she should be able to follow his lead.

Jonathan’s… well, he’s still her quiet, pensive, sweet Jonathan.

This thing he has going with Nancy Wheeler is still going strong, to the best of her knowledge, and she’s coming to terms with whatever it is they’re doing when he’s gone nearly all hours. She was a teenager once too, though, and she knows exactly what they’re doing. A smirk curls at the corners of her lips as she remembers just how much she knows, but then it slowly disappears.

She  _does_ know what happens. Jonathan is what happens. They’re smart kids, and she hopes they’re being smart about it.

Senior year’s not even half over yet but he’ll be going off to college in no time. The thought makes her exceedingly proud and profoundly terrified at the same time. Her boy, leaving the nest and going off on his own. In a big city, New York no less, with nearly a full scholarship. Not quite, but she’s been putting money away for years for the boys’ college funds. This is exactly what it’s there for, to pick up the slack.

But she has time to worry about those details later.

Moving from the kitchen Joyce wipes her wet hands onto her jeans to dry them. “Will?” she calls out when she doesn’t find him in the living room.

“In here,” she hears, and follows the sound of his voice into his bedroom. When she pushes the door open, he’s sitting on the bed. “What’s up?”

“I have to go into work for a few hours,” Joyce says with a sigh. She was supposed to be off for a few days for Christmas break, what with the holiday coming up in about a week, but Donald called and asked if she could come in for a little bit. It’s extra money, which they could use, so she can’t really say no. “Jonathan’s still at the Wheeler’s, but I could drop you off…”

“I’ll be okay here, Mom.”

She picks at her nails. “Are you sure, baby? Because I can just bring you over before I head in.”

“I’m sure,” Will smiles. “Besides, Mike’s house is in the opposite direction. You don’t have to do that.”

That’s true, but she’d gladly take him over anyway if it meant she’d know he was safe and with other people.

“I don’t mind, sweetie.”

“I know,” he promises with a nod, putting down his crayon. “But I’ll be okay. I’ll just be drawing or something anyway.”

With a small exhale, she takes a step forward. She’s still not entirely convinced, but this is what she’s trying to be better at. Give him room. 

“Okay,” she relents, offering him a smile. “You have the number for the store if anything happens, and if no one answers you call Jonathan and he’ll come—”

“I know, Mom,” Will cuts her off gently. “I’ll be fine, promise.”

He can’t promise that, she knows, but she appreciates the effort. Leaning down, she ruffles his hair and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Okay. I’ll only be a few hours.”

“Have fun at work,” he says brightly, smiling at her as she backs out of the room to grab her bag.

Pushing back the budding anxiety at the prospect of leaving him home alone, she forces herself out the door and into her car.

* * *

After two hours she wonders why Donald even called her in. It’s no busier than it is on a normal day, and if at all possible it might even be  _slower_. She knows she shouldn’t complain; she’s getting overtime for this, but the store most certainly would’ve gotten along just fine without her.

The phone rings a while later and she jumps, the shrill sound cutting harshly into the silence of the store. She scrambles to answer it, almost knocking it off the desk in the process.

“Melvald’s,” she greets, and the second she hears the voice in her ear her heart leaps into her throat. “Will? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Her son laughs on the other end and the tension dissipates. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom, sorry.”

Joyce exhales, chuckles to herself. Breathe. “It’s okay, baby. Did you need something?”

“No, not really.” There’s a pause. “Can Jonathan and I go shopping with the Chief?”

She blinks, wonders if she’s heard him correctly. “Hopper?”

“Yeah, he came looking for you, but you’re not here. Obviously.”

“Why didn’t he just call?”

“I don’t know,” Will says. There’s a grumble in the background she can’t quite make out, but knows it’s Hop. “He says you weren’t supposed to work today, so he figured you’d be here.”

She doesn't question how Hopper somehow knew she wasn't supposed to work today. 

Joyce nods, cradles the phone to her ear. “Right. So what’s this about shopping?”

“Jonathan and I still have to do some Christmas shopping,” her boy explains. “Hopper said he’s going shopping and I kind of asked if we could tag along. He said it’s okay though!”

She laughs, imagining her son stumbling through the question and immediately getting flustered. She only wishes she could’ve seen Hop’s face.

“Oh,” she says. “Wait, did you say Jonathan? I thought he was with Nancy.” There’s silence on his end. “If you’re shaking your head I can’t see it, sweetheart.”

Will gives a small gasp. “Oh, sorry. He got back right before Hopper showed up. So can we go?”

“I—yeah, I guess, sure. As long as Hop’s sure it’s okay.”

She hears (muffled, meaning Will’s holding the phone against his shoulder) him ask once more if it’s okay, and it’s followed by another one of Hop’s mumbled responses.

“He says yes,” Will returns, and she smiles.

“Okay, then go ahead. I’ll be home by the time you guys get back, so we’ll have dinner then.”

“Okay! Thanks Mom!”

When they hang up she holds the phone against her chest for a moment longer, worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Hopper’s never actually gone anywhere with her boys alone. She’s not worried, no; she trusts him with her sons, knows he wouldn’t let anything happen to them. It’s just… new.

With a small smile she finally puts the phone back onto its receiver. It’ll be good for them, Jonathan and Will, getting to bond with Hopper a little. She’s glad for it.

She only wishes she could be a fly on the wall while they’re shopping. Talk about entertainment.  

An older gentleman comes through the doors a few moments later, marking the fourth customer to enter the store since she’s arrived. Joyce greets him with a smile, but gets nothing more than a half nod and a grumble in response as he scurries past her and into whatever aisle he needs.

Ah, the holiday season. Such a  _lovely_ time for customer service workers.

* * *

Joyce makes it back before the boys, but she knew she would. If there’s one thing she knows about her sons it's that they take an almost unbelievable amount of time in stores. She doesn’t know what it is, but Jonathan spends 10 minutes picking out a single item and Will’s so indecisive he’ll bounce back and forth a few times before making a choice. 

Slipping her shoes off, she leaves them on the mat by the front door and shimmies out of her coat on her way to the kitchen. It’s tossed over one of the chairs in the process, draped across the back.

She grabs the chicken she had defrosting while she was at work and puts it onto the counter, and then moves to find the side dish she’d planned on. 

With everything cooking in their appropriate kitchen appliances, Joyce wanders into her bedroom. There’s nothing she wants more than to get out of her uniform. 

The shirt gets thrown onto her bed to be hung up later, and she pulls a soft pink sweater over her head. She doesn’t wear it often, doesn’t really know  _why_ , but it’s fuzzy and warm and she curls her arms into her chest the second it comes into contact with her skin. 

When she goes back into the living room, she hovers for a moment. She looks around, lips twisted to the side.

She has nothing to do.

For the first time in longer than she can even remember, there’s not a single thing she needs to be doing or worrying about. The food is cooking, she’s not working, and the boys are with Hopper. There's no unseen force of evil working against her right now, nothing lurking inside her walls. No darkened world waiting just below the surface of her wallpaper with her boy trapped inside.

It feels… well,  _weird_. She doesn’t know what to do with free time anymore.

Fingers tapping at her lips, the corners of her mouth curl into a small smile. It’s weird, but it feels nice. 

She peers in at the chicken quickly, makes sure it’s cooking nicely, and then reaches up on her tiptoes to grab a bottle of wine from a high cabinet. It’s not something she does often—not something she has the time for often—but she pours herself a glass and puts the bottle back.

Padding into the living room once more, she settles herself into the couch. Her back rests against the arm and she stretches her legs in front of her, curls her toes into the cushions. 

She’ll have to get up eventually to get dinner completed, and the boys will return soon, but for now she allows the knots in her shoulders to loosen. 

Joyce takes a sip and lets her eyes fall closed. She forgot what relaxation felt like. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you, you wonderful humans.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, what did you boys have in mind for your mom?" Hopper asks as they pull into the shopping center.

"We uh... we actually don't know," Will admits quietly, giving him a sheepish look from the backseat. "Mom does so much for us and we want to get her something nice, but we don't really  _know_ anything nice."

He laughs at that. "I'm sure she'll love anything you guys get her."

"She'd love a macaroni picture frame if we made one for her right now," Jonathan agrees, chiming in as he opens the door. "That’s kind of the point. We want to get her something she  _likes_ too."

"Ah," the man says, shoving his hands into his pockets. Standing in front of his truck, he waits for Will to scramble from the back and join the two of them before they start walking towards the store. "Well, why don't we walk around and see what we find?"

The boys both nod, and Will races enthusiastically in front of them. He grabs a cart from the front and bounces his weight on it as the older two catch up.

"What are you getting?" Jonathan asks, turning to look up at Hopper.

"I have to get El something. She's spending Christmas with her aunt but I'll stop by that night to exchange gifts," he says. He eyes the labels of the signs for each aisle. "And your mom, too."

Hopper doesn't see the two boys give each other a look.

"What are you getting her?" Will pipes up from where he has his elbows leaning on the cart.

He doesn't answer right away. He doesn't quite know everything he wants to get her; there are a few things he has in mind, but not all has been decided. Buying gifts for Joyce isn't exactly simple. It's never been simple, not even back when they were... he doesn't want to say  _friends_ , because they're friends now, but back when they were them. High school them. Close and yet not close enough.

"A jacket for one," he says. That's the safest to divulge right now. "She's been wearing that ratty green one for so long I'm surprised it hasn't disintegrated around her body."

"Yeah," Will whispers, "I guess it is old."

"I've never seen her with a different one," Jonathan adds. There's a stricken look on his face. "Do you really think Mom hasn't bought herself a coat in... that long?"

Hopper huffs a laugh. "Oh, I'd believe it. Your mother will spend money on you boys but hates spending it on herself." At the boys' frowns, he clears his throat. "No... that's not a bad thing. She's your mom, you know, that's what she does."

"Maybe." Jonathan shrugs. "But that's why we have to get her something good this year."

The teen doesn't know Hopper can see him counting the money he pulls from his pocket. He’s a large man, towers over both of the Byers boys, and can easily take notice despite Jonathan’s best efforts to hide it. It's more than he would've assumed the boy had, but it's still not much.

As they wander through the aisles, Will makes them stop every so often to look at something that catches his eye. He doesn't end up putting anything in the cart, doesn't deem anything worthy just yet, but oddly enough Hopper doesn't find himself minding the constant stops. He doesn't like shopping but Joyce's boys are... well, they're decent company. He’s grown pretty fond of both of them throughout the whole ordeal with Will.

And they keep other residents from coming up to him.

He notices a few sidelong glances, confused looks as he walks through the store with them. A few of the whispers he can hear make his fists curl at his sides, mainly comments referring to them as “Lonnie's boys”. Both of them deserve so much more than to be branded as  _Lonnie's boys_.

They're nothing like their father, neither of them.

In the time he's known the kid, he can tell that Will's one hundred percent Joyce. From his shy nature to sweet disposition, that kid's the spitting image of his mother. Even looks like Joyce did as a child from what he remembers from old photographs and their high school days. Jonathan mimics Joyce in her mannerisms, the way he carries himself and the quiet emotions he possesses. He doesn't much look like Joyce, except for the eyes, or Lonnie for that matter, but he supposes he lucked out on the latter.

"Hey, look at this, guys!" Will calls, ushering the two of them over to where he's holding up what looks like an easel.

"What is it?" Jonathan asks.

He flips it around, shows them what's written in fancy calligraphy lettering:  _world's best mom_. There are small, colorful flowers that form a border around the words and if he didn't know any better, looking at it from afar he'd say they look like multi-colored Christmas lights. How very convenient.

It'd be a little too on the nose if they actually were lights, but because they're actually flowers he thinks it's nice.

"Nice find, kid," Hopper says with a nod.

"Yeah, Will, I think she'd like it."

Beaming, the boy puts it delicately into the cart: the first thing to actually make it from the shelf and into their possession.

They spend a while longer in that section, and Hopper suspects Will also wants to look at the art supplies while they're over here. Sure enough, he wanders over to the paints and colored pencils in no time. Jonathan follows behind with a small smirk on his face.

"Hey," he says, catching Will's attention. "Pick something out, whatever you want."

The boys eyes widen. "What? No, that's okay—"

"I insist."

"You really don't have to do that, Chief," Will says. 

The boy really is his mother. Trying to get Joyce to take anything from anybody while giving nothing in return is like pulling teeth. He appreciates her pride, admires it, but he wishes she’d realize that not every nice thing done for her needs repayment. 

"I don't have to do anything. But I want to, so go on. Choose something." While Will hesitates, though Hopper can see the restrained hope in his eyes, he turns to Jonathan. "You too. My Christmas present to the both of you."

Now it's Jonathan's turn to balk, insist he doesn't have to get either of them anything, and he spends nearly five minutes convincing them that he damn well wants to get them a gift and to just pick something out already. He'll really have to tell Joyce that despite how well-mannered her sons are, it's a bit ridiculous.

He knows what Joyce is getting them for Christmas; she told him a few days ago when he was working out a few ideas on what to get El. She'd helped, and now he feels a little bit better about shopping for a teenage girl. Nothing she got them (or is getting, because he's not sure if she's managed to get it all done already) has come from this same store, so he feels content that neither of them will choose the same things they're already getting.

Will picks out a new sketch pad and Hopper throws in a set of those fancy art pencils he sees people using, and Jonathan grabs a new roll of film for his camera. He tries to get the kid to choose something else but he promises that's more than enough.

"Thanks, Chief," Will smiles, and Jonathan echoes the sentiment.

"Yeah, thanks, Hopper."

Waving them off, he gestures at nothing in particular. "Don't worry about it."

Once they get to the clothing section Hopper disappears for a few minutes to grab a couple things for El in addition to the non-clothing items he'd picked up a few days ago. They look like a teenage girl would wear them, and he's sure they'll fair better than the dull gray sweater she's been wearing for months on end. Looking to make sure the boys are occupied searching through the racks, he hops over to the jewelry counter to get something else, too.

Jonathan holds up a nice blouse, a royal purple Hopper immediately thinks would look stunning on Joyce. "Is this too fancy?"

"Does your mom have a lot of fancy outfits?" After a moment of thought, both boys shake their heads. He didn't think so. "Then go for it; it'll give her something nice to wear if she needs it."

Will inspects it, fingers brushing over the fabric. "Will it fit? It looks small."

Hopper snorts. "I'll let you guys in on a secret," he says, leaning down a bit. "Your mom wears clothes that are five times larger than she is. That," he points to the blouse, "is her actual size."

"How do you know her size?" Jonathan asks, a brow raised.

"She's barely changed since high school," is what he comes up with. It's true, and a much safer response than telling Jonathan that he spends enough time admiring his mother's figure to know its true size. "She's small."

Will seems to accept this and immediately turns around, back on the hunt, but Jonathan takes a few more seconds of consideration before he drops the blouse into the cart and lets it go.

The coats are off in a separate section and he gravitates towards them, still needs to pick one for Joyce. The green one she wears now is not only old, but falling apart at the seams. It's thin and worn down and not at all sufficient to keep her warm during the winter. He's watched her shiver one too many times, arms wrapped around herself so tightly for warmth she may as well have forgone the jacket all together.

As he looks through the racks, the boys wander over.

"All of these are so much warmer than the one Mom wears now," Will comments, dusting his fingers along the fuzzy fabric of one of them.

Hopper nods. "Any of these look like something your mom would wear?"

The two of them look through them, narrow down their options, and eventually steer him towards a black one not unlike the one she currently has. The style is similar, except for the warm interior and the fleece-like lining inside the hood. That'll keep her even warmer, brace her from the cold, and he nods in agreement when they move to put it into the shopping cart.

"Good," he says, eyeing the contents of the cart. "Was there anything else you guys wanted to look at?"

Jonathan and Will look at each other, contemplating, before they turn back and shake their heads.

"No, I don't think so," Jonathan says. "We're good."

"Yeah," Will adds. "I mean... do you think the shirt and easel are enough?"

He almost reiterates that she'll love anything they get her, and she'll likely be upset they even spent their money on her at all, but he doesn't. They already know that, and he suspects they're (or Will, really, but he thinks Jonathan too) worried it'll seem insignificant compared to what they feel she deserves.

"Is there anything she needs?" he asks instead. "For around the house, or something she mentioned she wished she had, or anything like that."

"Umm." Jonathan looks pensive as he thinks on it. "I haven't heard her mention anything, have you?"

Will shakes his head. "I don't think so," he sighs. "She's always rubbing her back and her feet, because they hurt after standing on them all day, but..."

More comfortable shoes, maybe? Or a heating pad to soothe her back on the rough days? He’s sure she hasn’t bought a new pair of shoes in years, and he’s almost positive she doesn’t own a heating pad; she certainly wouldn't have bought one for herself. He mentions them to the boys.

"A heating pad would probably help with her back. She has to stretch and bend down and stuff a lot, I've seen her," Will says.

Hopper nods. "Then get a heating pad."

Jonathan looks torn. "I uh... buddy, we can't get all three," he tells his brother, but Hopper's already shaking his head before the younger boy can frown.

"Yeah you can."

"Oh, no. You can't," Jonathan says firmly. "You're already getting—"

"I know what I'm getting, kid. And your mom deserves this; it'll really help her. So," he says, pointing towards the general direction of the self care section or whatever it’s labeled as, "you guys go pick out a heating pad. You get the blouse and drawing, and I'll get the heating pad. Just add it to your gifts, okay?"

Sure he’s not made of money, but knowing he was more than likely going to spoil El he saved all year for Christmas. This will in no way set him back. Besides, Joyce has been through hell and does enough for all of them, himself included. She could use the relaxation, and the pain relief.

He can tell Jonathan wants to argue, can see it in the set of his jaw, the way it works as he grinds his back teeth. But he's not angry; the look on his face is one of a teenager who's torn between his pride and the desire to give his mom something she needs and would benefit from.

"Go," he says, gentler this time. He even manages a smile when Will grins at him, bouncing away with an enthusiastic thank you tossed behind him.

Jonathan's shoulders slump as he concedes. "Are you sure?"

Nodding, he places a hand on the teen's shoulder. "I'm sure. Now go help your brother pick one out before he grabs three different kinds," he says, squeezing over Jonathan's jacket when a small smile peeks through.

"Thanks," he murmurs, finally turning to find Will and help him out.

* * *

When all is said and done, the three of them carry the bags out to his truck and stuff them into the back, making sure nothing breakable will fall off of the seats. Will offers to hold some of them, just to make sure, and they're placed into his lap.

Joyce is home when they return, dinner already made, and she practically drags Hopper inside.

"You took my boys shopping, I'm feeding you," she says, leaving absolutely no room for discussion. "Come inside."

And so he doesn't fight it, doesn't try to excuse himself because the look Joyce gives him tells him that's not even an option. The traitorous little voice in the back of his mind tells him he doesn't actually  _want_ to leave, and will accept any reason to spend more time with her.

It’s true, but that’s not what she needs to hear right now.

"Didn't burn the house down I see," he teases, taking note of the slightly charred chicken sitting on the table.

She smacks his arm. "Sit down, Hop."

He obliges, suppressing a smile when she sits down beside him with a humph and a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued enthusiasm for this little story! 
> 
> I'll be going out of town for a conference next week, so I won't be able to update on the usual Wednesday. I'll do my best to get it out before I leave, but I have a lot of work to do so sadly I can't make any promises. All else fails, we'll be back in business on the 21st!


	8. Chapter 8

Christmas morning comes and brings along with it more snow and temperatures so low Joyce worries the heater will freeze up all together. When she rolls over she's surprised to find that it's already 9:00, far later than she's gotten up on Christmas morning since... well, since she had the boys.

Sitting up in bed, she can hear the hushed whispers coming from the other room. With a shiver she grabs her robe and throws it on top of the sweater she'd fallen asleep in, tugs it tight to her chest, and pads from her bedroom.

Both of her boys are in the kitchen, Jonathan making pancakes at the stove and Will waiting patiently at the table for them. He notices her first.

"Mom!" he beams, turning in his chair to face her. She comes up and runs a palm over his hair. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, baby," she says, then moving towards her eldest. Wrapping an arm around Jonathan's shoulder, careful not to jostle the spatula, she tugs him into her side. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

Peering over his shoulder, she eyes the perfectly golden pancakes. "You boys should've woken me up."

"Jonathan said we should let you sleep in today. You haven't been getting much rest."

Her mouth opens. "I get plenty of rest..."

Jonathan peels his attention from the stove and gives her a look. "You don't get enough rest, Mom. Let us let you sleep in once in a while."

"But it's Christmas."

"It'll still be Christmas for 15 hours," he points out, flipping one last pancake to add to the plate. "Besides, we've only been awake for like half an hour anyway."

That makes her feel better; if her boys had been awake for hours waiting for her to get up, even if it was their choice to wait it out, she'd feel terrible. She may not get enough sleep, as Jonathan has so kindly pointed out, but it's not their job to make sure she does.

She does appreciate it, though.

"Thank you," she relents, pressing a kiss to Jonathan's hair before he can move away. "That was very sweet of you, honey."

He merely offers her a smile and nods towards the table. Once she's taken a seat next to Will, he puts the plate of pancakes in the middle and joins them. The three eat at a normal pace (which surprises her, really, because usually they scarf down their food to open presents quicker) and Will bounces excitedly in his seat.

"It's definitely another game," he says confidently.

Joyce smirks around her fork. "And why do you think that?"

"I was shaking them last night and they don't move, and they're the right weight and shape." When she gives him an amused look, he shrugs. "I didn't rip them open, Mom. Just... investigated."

She laughs, merely shakes her head.

When they're all done, she ushers them into the living room to finally open some presents. She stands back and leans against the side of the couch, one arm crossed over her chest and the other hand resting on her chin. All she can do is admire her boys.

They're happy, both of them, and Jonathan's face lights up when he shoves playfully at his brother and Will laughs. They're in semi-matching pajamas this morning, which is something she hadn't noticed before. Will wears red long john bottoms with candy canes on them and Jonathan wears green, the both of them wearing white thermal shirts.

After divvying up the present piles, Jonathan moves to get his camera and stands back while Will opens his gifts. He snaps photos along the way, grinning from behind the lens at his brother’s excitement. A few of the presents  _were_ new video games, per Will's guess, and when he tears into them he throws his fists into the air and stumbles from the floor to tackle his mother with a hug.

"Thank you!"

Joyce chuckles. "You're welcome, sweetheart," she says, rubbing his back.

When it's Jonathan's turn Will takes hold of the camera and takes photos of him, much to Jonathan’s dismay. _I just wanted you to hold the camera, Will,_  he insists. He gets new clothes (which he was in desperate need of, really) and some new camera equipment.

She wishes so badly she could've gotten her boys more, but she's thrilled they seem genuinely happy with what she was able to get them. One day she hopes she'll be able to quit worrying about money and spend whatever she wants on them. They certainly deserve it.

"It's your turn, Mom!" Will says, pointing enthusiastically to her pile of gifts. Jonathan nods in agreement, taking the reigns of the photography duty once more.

She almost moves to tell Jonathan she doesn’t need to be documented, but before her mouth opens he gives her a knowing look. Even Jonathan was photographed, so it’s only fair, she supposes.

"Okay, okay," she laughs, holding her hands up when they continue to nod expectantly.

They're scrappily wrapped and she'd want nothing else. She can tell immediately the ones Will wrapped versus the ones done by Jonathan. Jonathan's have just a little more refinement; neither are perfectly wrapped, but they’re perfect to her.

Grabbing the one on top, she carefully rips at the wrapping paper to reveal a framed piece of artwork that says _world's best mom_  on it. Her lips curl into a touched smile and she stares at it for a few seconds before holding it to her chest.

"Thank you, boys," she says quietly, voice thick with emotion. The two of them grin at her.

"It's true," Jonathan says, and she swears if they don't stop she'll start crying before she even finishes unwrapping the rest of the presents. She hears the click of the camera and looks up to find Jonathan smiling at her, unashamed of the sneaky photo.

The next one she opens is a blouse, a royal purple color that she doesn't wear often but finds very pretty.

"You two are good for flattery," she chuckles, holding the shirt up in front of her. "Thank you for thinking I'm this tiny."

"Chief said that's your real size," Will says, and her brows skyrocket.

"Hopper?"

Her son nods, completely unfazed. "Yeah. He said you wear clothes five times too big and that you're actually small." Looking at her with a critical eye, he nods. "I think he's right, Mom. You're small."

Joyce manages a laugh despite the way her thoughts spin. She knew Hop took her boys shopping but had no idea he'd had any input in her gifts, let alone told them what size she was. He's right, too, because she does wear baggier clothes, but how he correctly got what appears to be her actual size is beyond her.

She surely isn't still the waify little thing she was in high school.

"Well thank you, Will." Clearing her throat, she folds the shirt and puts it back into its box so it doesn't wrinkle. "I'm sure it'll fit just fine."

There's one more sitting on the coffee table, a present bigger than the last two, and she instantly wonders what it is. Her boys are eyeing her as she hoists it onto her lap and begins to peel at the edges of the paper. Once the photo on the box is revealed, her eyes widen.

"A heating pad?"

"Yeah," Jonathan says, inching closer. "For your back. We know you're on your feet a lot at work and you have to bend and stuff, so we figured the heating pad would help when you get back pain."

She doesn't say anything for a few seconds, too in awe as she takes it completely out of its wrapping paper and stares at the box.

"Is it bad?" Will asks.

Blinking, she looks down at him. "What? No, no," she says quickly, giving a soft smile. "It's perfect, baby, this will really help. I'm just surprised is all. These are expensive..."

She watches as her boys look at each other; Jonathan looks a little sheepish and Will remains neutral.

"Yeah," Jonathan breathes, glancing up at her. "The Chief kind of insisted he pay for it. It's still from us, but he bought it."

"He what?"

Will nods. "He said you deserved it and we wanted to get you something that you could actually use," he says. "Jonathan tried to tell him he didn't have to do that, though, so don't be mad."

Joyce chuckles, a little breathless. "I'm not mad, sweetheart," she promises, placing the box beside her on the couch so she can stand. Leaning down, she hugs Will and thanks him before doing the same for Jonathan. "Really, this was... very thoughtful. Thank you."

She's not sure how to feel about Hopper buying her Christmas presents from the boys, spending his money on her when he doesn't have to, but looking at the joy on their faces at how much she loves her gifts makes it all float away. All that matters is that they're happy. Anything else she can deal with.

When Will asks if they can watch a movie, practically pleads to put on Jack Frost, she can't do anything but immediately give in.

"Of course," she says, laughing at the way he jumps up. Even after everything he's gone through, she's so relieved he can still be a normal kid. That he can still enjoy the little things and get excited over Christmas movies. "You two get settled in and I'll bring us all some hot chocolate."

By the time she returns with three mugs, carrying them as carefully as she can, Jonathan's already got the VHS playing and they're curled on the couch. Joyce drags a blanket from the recliner and drapes it over the two of them before crawling in beside them and pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

It's around 1:00 when the phone rings and Joyce is jolted from the light sleep she must've fallen into. Jonathan's still beside her on the couch, and Will's migrated to the carpet as he lies on his chest in front of the television.

"Okay?" Jonathan asks, watching her carefully.

She nods a little too quickly, her smile a little too wide. "Yeah," she breathes, rubbing at her face. "Yeah. Didn't realize I fell asleep."

Tossing the blanket from her body she gets up, manages to reach the phone before she misses the call. The slight hesitation before she answers it doesn't go unnoticed, but she does hope Jonathan (who may be trying to covertly watch her) missed it. It still gets to her sometimes, the shrill ring of the phone bringing her back to when Will was gone, but she's getting better at pushing it back.

"Hello?"

"Joyce. Merry Christmas."

She smiles, tension in her shoulders deflating. "Merry Christmas, Hop. Are you heading over to El's aunt's house now?"

"In about an hour," he says. "I was uh—I was actually checking if I could stop by. Drop off your gifts."

"Oh. You didn't have to get me anything." She got him something, of course, couldn't  _not_ , but she didn't expect him to return the gesture. Of course, she supposes she should have.

He makes a noise of dissent on the other end. "Please."

Chuckling, she nods to herself. "Suppose you're right." Glancing into the living room, she watches Jonathan take a photo of an unsuspecting Will and grins. "Sure, now's a good time."

"See you soon then."

"Hopper's coming over to drop off his presents," she says as she walks back into the room. "Let's get his and El's from under the tree, okay?"

Will crawls on his stomach towards the three to grab them and she laughs, rolls her eyes. Anything to avoid getting up, right?

She got the girl a few little things; a cute sweater or two she thinks she'd like, a colorful notebook, and some crayons. The last time she was over Joyce remembers how enthralled she was with Will's collection of art supplies and she figures this'll be a good start.

For Hop, on the other hand, it was harder to pick out a gift. Everything felt either too impersonal or too much like a gift from one significant other to another and they fall into neither of those categories. They’re friends, but there’s something more there too, something more than casual friends but less than  _together_. It makes it... difficult. And what do you really get someone you owe  _so_ much? He's the reason Will even made it back from that hell (he'll deny it up and down, but the fact remains that without him she wouldn't have had any authorities on her side or made it into the lab) and neither a baseball cap nor an item of clothing felt right.

A sentimental card crossed her mind, an expression of how truly grateful she is for him and everything he's done, but that didn't feel right either. It's a nice gesture and all, but it's not them. That's never been them.

In the end, she'd come across a way to customize a lighter. There was an ad in the paper (of course there was) and she'd checked it out, thought it would be perfect for him. It's a simple lighter, jet black, but his name is engraved along the side in white etches. It cost more than she realistically should have spent on one gift, but it didn't break the bank and she doubted she'd find something better.

The man is practically a chain smoker, and while she knows she's just as bad, she's positive he'll make good use of it.

It's a small gesture, barely scratches the surface of what she feels she owes him, but it'll do. She just hopes he likes it.

The knock at the door comes not fifteen minutes later, and in comes Hopper, boots and the bottom of his pants covered in snow and slush. Cradled in his arms are four obviously man-wrapped gifts.

"Hi, Chief."

"Hey, Chief."

Hopper looks over to the boys and gives a nod. "Merry Christmas," he says, then looks straight towards her. "Merry Christmas."

"You too, Hop. Now take off your shoes and come get warmed up."

He deposits the gifts onto the coffee table and accepts the blanket she wraps around him with a huff. "Thanks." He mutters a little but doesn't take it off. It's cold outside and she knows the heat in his truck has been on the fritz lately. "These two are yours," he says to the boys, pointing to two of the boxes.

Joyce raises a brow. "You didn't have to..."

But the two of them are already digging into the wrapping paper of the presents they picked out themselves. Despite knowing exactly what they were going to be, they're both excited and thank Hopper again with gleeful smiles.

"I had them both choose something at the store," he clues her in, holding up a hand before she can voice the protest he already knows is bubbling on the tip of her tongue. "My Christmas present to them; I wouldn't know what to buy. They're good kids."

Warmth spreads through her chest as she watches Will open his new sketchpad and rip into the art pens to draw with, and Jonathan fiddling with the new film for his camera.

"Thank you," she breathes, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I know they appreciate it, and I do too."

He brushes it off with a shrug and clears his throat. He's uncomfortable with the attention, the appreciation, she knows. He always has been.

"Those two are yours," he says then, pointing to the remaining two gifts.

"I would reprimand you for getting me something, but," she starts, turning on her heel and heading into the hallway. Hopper has half a mind to follow her, but then she comes back with a small wrapped package in her own hand, "I got you something too."

"You didn't have to."

"Out of the question. Just accept it," she tells him, shoving the gift unceremoniously into his hands. Glancing at the boys, who have claimed the living room with their things sprawled across the table and floor, she nods towards the kitchen. "Shall we?"

Hopper grabs her two gifts and follows her, takes a seat beside her and slides the presents in front of her, his own still weighing in his palms. In reality he should've expected Joyce to get him something, but he really didn't; he hoped she wouldn't, though he supposes that's a bit hypocritical when he bought her two.

"You can go first."

She looks like she's going to protest but decides against it, instead opens the larger of the two. When she unveils the coat, the material spilling from its packaging the second she makes the first tear, her eyes widen. Pulling it completely from its folded form, she holds it in front of her before letting it collapse into her lap.

"Hop..."

"You needed a new one," he says with a casual nonchalance. 

"I’ve had my coat for years and it’s just fine."

"That’s the  _point_ , Joyce. You’ve had that thing since Jonathan was little, I’m sure.” She exhales through her nose. “It's freezing out and your coat does nothing to protect from any chill. If anything I think it sucks in the cold and makes you colder."

Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she finally speaks. She doesn’t deny her coat’s uselessness.

"I—this is too much."

"It's not. It's necessary."

Joyce runs her fingers over the fake fur of the hood, the softness a stark contrast to the bristled, worn out hood of her current jacket. It's a deep black, the fur the only difference with its dark grey hue, and it does feel much thicker, much warmer. She doesn't think she'll freeze in this, which is a plus.

"Thank you," she breathes quietly, finally accepting her gift. 

It's when she picks up the smaller gift that his mouth goes a little dry, his fingers twiddling in his lap. Her face changes, an awed gasp escaping her throat as she pulls the necklace from the box. It's nothing fancy, really; it's a small pendant with three little birth stones that form a triangle shape. Herself and the boys.

He knows all of their birthdays so it wasn't all that hard to put together. The original necklace had one birthstone and two little plain jewels in the other two slots, but the woman behind the counter asked if he wanted any customization done to it and, well, it sounded like a nice idea.

It wasn’t what he set out to get, but it had caught his eye. And it was part of some sale, he doesn’t remember why, but it was a  _lot_ off the original price.

"Oh, Hop, it's... it's beautiful." Her voice is airy, almost a little breathless, and she continues to stare at it, fingers brushing delicately over the chain as if it'll break. "I won't even tell you how this is absolutely too much, but just know I think it is. And I love it."

He doesn't tell her he figures it'd be a nice piece of mind to have them with her at all times, even when they're not, and so he just gives a small smile.

"Don't mention it."

Really, he hopes she doesn’t mention it.

His hands are sweaty and he can’t look at her anymore while she stares at the necklace. When he finally does look up, she has it clasped around her neck before he can even ask if she needs help.

"Okay, your turn." Gesturing vaguely towards the gift placed in front of him, she stumbles a little, suddenly nervous. "It's nothing like this, but..."

Hopper silences her attempted apology with a look and unwraps the snowman paper. A lighter. 

A lighter with his name etched into the side.

He laughs, flipping it over. "You sure do know the way to a man's heart," he says, his tone genuine. This is such a  _him_ gift.

"Yeah, a man who chain smokes three packs a day."

"Hey, it's one."

"Sorry, however could I mix that up," she jests. "Whad'ya say we test it out?"

He's one step ahead of her, already plucking a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

"Works like a charm," he says after it lights.

Hopper takes one long drag and passes it to Joyce, who inhales deeply and coughs at the unfiltered nicotine just as she always does. They stay at the table for a while, sharing a smoke, before they finish it down to a nub and he decides he should get going to see El.

"Merry Christmas, Hop."

He turns in the doorway, her gifts for El in his hands and his new lighter burning a hole in his jeans. "Merry Christmas, Joyce."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience while I was away. We're back in action x


	9. Chapter 9

The New Year comes and goes fairly uneventfully, which is all Joyce could’ve really asked for. With a whirlwind of a 1983 and a harrowing 1984 in the aftermath of too many tragedies, she can only hope that 1985 will bring about… well, anything else. 

Calm. Some joy, maybe.

That’s not to say she hasn't had any joy in the past two years, but she'd like some consistency. If a good day here and there is all she can get then she'll take it, of course, but she hopes there’ll be more good days than bad this year.

For her boys, especially. They’ve dealt with enough. 

She rings in the year with her boys, Hopper, and El, who both come over for the festivities. Jonathan and the kids make their way over to the Wheeler's house after the ball drops to spend the night. This is much to the concern of both Joyce and Hopper, though she knows Jonathan will drive carefully and keep them all together. 

This knowledge doesn’t stop her from making him promise to drive safely, to be aware of his surroundings and watch for potential drunks, and to call when they get to Karen’s.

With the kids gone, Joyce and Hopper are left a party of two.

"Maybe I'll go sit outside the Wheeler's," Hopper says a few minutes after they make their leave, already tying his boot laces.

She just manages to catch the arm of his jacket before he has a chance to reach the door. "What have we talked about. Giving them some space?"

"That's rich," he grunts, turning to look at her. "Who's the one who gave Will roughly ten feet of space at the Snow Ball?"

"That was a while ago, and if I remember correctly you were  _right_ there with me."

Hopper grumbles because what she's saying isn't a lie. With her hand tugging at the fabric of his jacket, he finally acquiesces and lets her lead him back to the couch to sit down.

"They're with Jonathan. And Nancy and Steve are there, too, and Karen and Ted, and all the kids. They'll be fine."

“Who are you and what have you done with Joyce?”

She rolls her eyes. “Funny.”

"I'm just surprised you're not more freaked out."

Joyce laughs. "Oh I'm having a small panic attack in here," she says, pointing to her chest, "but I trust my boys. Will's going to resent me if I keep him on any shorter of a leash, and El will do the same with you."

"I'm just trying to k—"

"Keep her safe, I know," Joyce finishes for him softly. "And she knows, too, but we have to ease up at some point."

With a sideways glance, he heaves out an exhale. "How about that point be next year?"

"Hop."

"Okay," he sighs.

Once she’s satisfied that he won’t try to make a break for the door the second she gets up, she decides to bring out the wine hidden in the back cupboard in the kitchen. 

“Didn’t even know you had any alcohol here,” he laughs when he takes the glass from her. “You don’t have a beer hidden in that cabinet too, do you?”

“You’re out of luck. Now drink your wine.”

“You save this for special occasions or what?” Hopper eyes her, bringing the rim of the glass to his mouth. The dainty wine glass looks pitifully small, almost out of place in his broad hands. “A little Joyce Gone Wild?” 

Joyce grins despite herself as she sits beside him on the couch. “Yeah, I go  _real_ wild with two boys home nearly every second I am,” she points out with a chuckle. “But yeah. Special occasions, rough days.”

Hopper nods as he takes another drink, and she knows that he understands what that’s like to need one after a stressful day.

And on those really bad days she'll let herself have a glass, but she tries not to use it as a crutch. That's the last thing she needs, the last thing her boys need. Which is why it’s in the cabinet, out of sight and out of mind.

She relaxes a bit more once Jonathan calls to let them know they've arrived safely, and after a few glasses (she doesn’t know how many, but she  _does_ know the bottle is now nearly empty) she looks down at Hopper, who has at some point slid down onto the carpet. He's leaning against the front of the cushion, legs stretched in front of him.

"Yeah, you're staying here," she laughs a little, covering her mouth when a small hiccup escapes.

Craning his neck backwards, he blinks at her. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not going home, Hop," she repeats. "I'm not letting you drive."

"I'm completely fine," he counters, grunting a little as he sits up straighter. With a clatter the wine glass collides with the coffee table, and she's surprised it doesn't crack. "Besides, it's New Years. There's no one even on the roads."

"Drunk driving is the exact thing you pull people over for," she points out as she stands, waving a finger around. "And I refuse to let you behind the wheel after... however many glasses you’ve had."

Hopper laughs. "It's  _wine_ , Joyce. I haven't gotten drunk off of wine in… well, never.” He takes notice of her small wobble. “ _You_ on the other hand...”

"Humor me, then." 

She ignores his comment, and he shakes his head. He’s a big, solid man, and she’s a small woman,  _yes_ she knows the wine affecting her more. 

When he opens his mouth with yet another rebuttal, she levels him with a look she knows he can't turn down. She’s been using this particular look on him since high school and it works like a charm. 

In 5... 4... 3... 2...

Hopper relents with an exaggerated  _fine_ (though they both know he would’ve stayed anyway) and she grins, victorious. 

"El won't be back until tomorrow anyway. You have nowhere to be," she chirps, pushing herself from where she’s leaning on the arm of the couch to move into the hallway.

The chill in the air helps fight against the buzz fogging her brain, and aside from a few teeters along the way she makes it to the closet to grab a few extra blankets and pillows without incident. It still gets pretty cold in the living room at night, and sometimes she’s positive it’s because of the hole she’d hacked into her own wall. Ridiculous, of course, since it’s been patched up for a long while now, rendered new again.

If someone didn't know the story, didn't know she'd axed her wall to get to her son lost in another realm, it'd look like a perfectly normal living room wall. But she knows what used to lie beyond that wallpaper.

Shaking herself from those thoughts, she piles the necessary items into her arms, kicks the linen closet door shut with her leg, and heads back to Hopper. He's migrated back onto the couch now, no longer sprawled on the floor like a teenager, and she smiles.

"Here," she greets him, plopping the pile onto the cushion beside him. "If you need more blankets they're in the closet in the hall."

"Thanks, Joyce."

The way he looks at her sends shivers down her spine, and it's  _worse_ because she's not even sure he knows he's doing it. His eyes are soft, so much softer than she's seen him recently (maybe ever, really, though in high school… in high school he wasn't as hardened as he is now), and she feels almost naked under his gaze.

Which is, again, absurd.

 _Get it together, Joyce_.

Hopper suggests they have one last glass of wine since, and she quotes, "I've been grounded in the most literal sense."

She rolls her eyes. "You act like I'm keeping you prisoner."

"This would be one hell of a prison," he muses, looking around. "I could do time here."

She knows he's only talking about if it were a literal prison, not about wanting to spend more time in her home and with  _her_ , but her heart skips a beat at the mention regardless. She really needs to put a lid on these wayward feelings; she has no right to them.

Looking at the man beside her, who's pulled her down onto the couch next to him (effectively squishing all of the pillows beneath her body), she  _really_ has no right to feel this way. Whether he feels the same way or not—and she suspects he does, has suspected since she began dating Bob and the tiniest hints of jealousy became apparent—she can't.

"You're thinking," he says suddenly, and she snaps her gaze to him.

"If I wasn't thinking I'd be a little concerned."

He taps her temples. "You know what I mean," he says, and she's beginning to doubt the claim that he's never been drunk on wine before. He's acting… different. "Relax, Joyce."

Blowing out a breath, she tries. She does.

"I'm just…"

"1985 just started, you know. There can't  _possibly_ be something for you to panic about already." 

And oh, how she wishes it were that simple. Because he’s right—1985 is shaping up to be a good year so far in the, what, hour or so it's been happening. But what's got her so wrapped up is from so long ago, so far removed from this year she doesn't even know how to tackle it.

Wrapping his arm around her back, Hopper pulls her into his side, coaxes her to rest her head against his shoulder. She should pull away, politely go into her bedroom and lie down in her bed, but instead she lets herself soak in the comfort. Before long, her eyes begin to slip closed and her breathing slowly evens out a little.

Her palm finds its way to his chest, fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric of his shirt. Warmth immediately floods her system, spreads throughout her body like liquid. With his hand rubbing calming circles around her shoulder blades she forces herself to push it all back for a moment.

For a second, just enjoy this.

As relaxed as she feels on the outside, a little voice in the back of her mind continues to scream.  _You don't deserve this_.

In another life, this is what she could have had. Hopper in her life, in a different capacity than he is right now, as more than this friend limbo they’re in. Hopper with his constant calming energy, keeping her sane in tough situations. She could've had all of this.

A troubled man with a tragic past, a smoking habit and more notches on his bedpost than she cares to count, but with a kind heart. Perhaps that wouldn't have happened, though, had she made different decisions.

A pang of guilt curls around her ribs at the thought. If she'd acted differently, made one different move, Hopper likely wouldn't have had Sara or married Diane. She wouldn't have had Will, either, and she loves that boy more than she loves herself. She'd never trade him for the world, not even one in which she never marries Lonnie, never gets used as his punching bag and never finds herself on the wrong end of town gossip. And she knows Hopper would never choose a life in which Sara never existed, despite the devastating outcome.

Even still, wondering gnaws at her. 

Hopper's ministrations on her back slow before stopping completely and she thinks he's fallen asleep. She wonders if she should extract herself and head to bed, but then his palm cradles the back of her skull. It's there for a brief moment before it moves back down to her waist and settles there, but she can feel his fingers thread through her hair on the way down.

"Rest," he murmurs, and when he presses a kiss to her hair she freezes. He's definitely feeling the wine, already half asleep, which doesn't surprise her.

They don't do this; this isn't them.

"Hop…"

He hums.

Joyce delicately lifts his arm and curls out from his embrace, ignoring the cold she feels the second she does, and turns to face him.

"You're tired," she says, gaze trailing from his face to literally anywhere else. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

When he doesn't object, just situates himself horizontally on the couch, she knows he's really out of it. Standing, she once again grabs at the blankets she'd brought out before and begins to unfold them.

"What, you gonna tuck me in?" he laughs, eyes hooded.

Sometimes she forgets he has a kid to look after too, that he has to handle El and her powers even after long days of being the Chief of Police and dealing with the people of Hawkins. 

No wonder he's tired.

"Yeah, you big baby," she teases right back, instructing him to lift his head so she can shove a pillow under it. "I'd read you a bedtime story but I think you've heard them all."

Eyes now closed, he sighs. "I'd listen to your voice anyway," he mumbles. It's quiet, barely there, and the way he doesn't react tells her he either doesn't know he's said it out loud or is unaware she heard him.

Her heart is in her throat, fluttering against her skin, and she hastily unfolds the last blanket and drapes it across his large body. He doesn't quite fit on her couch, his legs hanging off a little, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's better than the floor.

Hopper's asleep in mere minutes and she chuckles in spite of herself. She grabs both of their glasses and brings them into the kitchen, depositing them into the sink to be washed tomorrow.

Once in the comfort of her own bedroom, door closed, she drops herself onto the edge of her bed. With her elbows resting on her thighs, face in her open palms, she lets out a shaky breath.

Here she has Hopper being sweet and feely in her living room, two words she wouldn't necessarily associate with him. He's always been kind, with her at least, but this is different. And with the addition of these emotional comments spewing from his mouth she doesn't know how to take it. He's finally expressing  _something_ and she can't even be happy about it, can't reciprocate it at all because she's too busy feeding the immense guilt that's built up in her veins.

He's spending Christmas and New Years with her family, with her boys, and he has no idea he's spending it with  _his_ family too. In an abstract sense he may feel that way, sure, but in the literal sense he has no idea.

He spent the holidays this year with his son and he's none the wiser. Likewise, Jonathan spent the holidays with his father and he has absolutely no clue. 

That's all on her, she knows.

There have been many moments throughout the years—hell, throughout the past two alone—where she's almost said something, almost blurted it out, almost took the weight off of her shoulders and did the right thing, but she didn't. Staying silent was cowardly, still is. 

The longer it goes on the more impossible it seems to even speak the words anymore.

With each passing day it gets harder, more difficult to even fathom letting the truth go, out from the safe cage of her body where it's lived for the past seventeen years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, as always. I hope you guys enjoy the fluff; we start getting into the meat of the story next chapter :)


	10. Chapter 10

A few weeks after winter break ends and the kids are back in school, Jonathan comes home with a slip of paper dangling between his fingertips.

"What do you have there?" she asks, turning away from the sink full of dishes she's trying to get through.

"A permission slip for bio." He throws his backpack down on the chair. Looking behind him, he yells to his brother. "Hey, don't forget to take the banana out of your bag this time!"

There's a small  _right!_ that wafts down the hallway, indicating Will had, in fact, forgotten he already had it.

Joyce's brow furrows. "Banana?"

"Dustin gave him one because he had like five." Jonathan shrugs with a little laugh. "I didn't ask."

"Ah," she breathes, amusement in her features. Putting the dish towel over the top of one of the chairs for the time being, she leans her weight against the edge of the table. "So, permission slip?"

"Oh, yeah," Jonathan says, sliding it over to her. "We were supposed to do this last year but they didn't have the right equipment or something? I'm not sure, but we're doing it now."

Her mouth goes dry as she reads the text at the top of the permission slip, outlining exactly what it is they'll be doing.

"Blood typing?" she asks, clearing her voice.

"Yeah. We need permission because we're pricking ourselves and there'll be blood involved, I guess."

The paper shakes between her unsteady fingers and she lets it drop onto the table before it becomes too obvious, before Jonathan catches on to the way she fidgets. She's heard of fancy private schools doing blood typing, sure, but she never expected somewhere like Hawkins to do it. 

"Don't you already know your blood type?" she asks.

Jonathan shakes his head. "I don't think so."

Well, that makes it a bit more problematic. If he did, she could just use that as an excuse for him to forgo the experiment all together. Say she’s uncomfortable with him pricking himself. 

She knows his blood type, of course, but she figures blurting it out right now in an effort to hinder the biology course objectives would only be suspicious. So would outright saying  _no_ , and so she's torn, put into a situation she didn't think she'd ever be in.

If she tells Jonathan she won't sign the slip, that she doesn't want him doing the blood typing, he’ll wonder why. If she signs it and sends him on his way, it's entirely possible he'll come back with a blood type that doesn't match with hers or Lonnie's. She doesn't know Hopper's blood type, never thought that was a question that needed to be asked, but she knows there's a good chance it differs from either of theirs.

Then again, perhaps, by some miracle, he has the same blood type as Lonnie—A-.

It's a pretty common blood type if she remembers correctly, something like almost 35 percent of the population has it. It wouldn't be insane for Hopper to also have an A- blood type.

"Mom, are you okay?"

Blinking, Joyce lifts her eyes to her son. "Yeah," she says with a shake of her head, a little laugh. "Yeah, honey, I'm fine."

She runs a soothing hand over his forearm and offers a smile, tries to make it as convincing as she possibly can even though she's on the brink of an anxiety attack. She can feel her breathing getting quicker, more ragged, but she can't let herself break down in front of him.

Grabbing a pen from the table she does the only thing she can think to do—she signs the permission slip. She has to hope the odds are in her favor and whatever Hop's blood type is is compatible with Lonnie's and nothing out of the ordinary shows up.

"Thanks," Jonathan says once she hands it back over. He looks over her with a concerned eye, tries to read her. He's always been pretty good at it, even when he was younger, and she's found herself purposely changing her body language or expression to fool him. "I don't know if I'm supposed to get yours and dad's blood type?"

"I don't know your father's off the top of my head," she says and oh, how true a statement it is.

He shrugs, shoving the paper into his bag once again. "Okay. Well, what's yours? Just in case we need it." Zipping his bag, he looks up at her. "One's better than none."

"B-, I think."

"Okay, thanks, Mom. I'll put my bag in my room and help with dinner?"

Mustering a smile for him, she nods. "Of course. Thanks, sweetheart."

Once she's sure he's out of sight and in his bedroom, Joyce swipes her pack of cigarettes from the table and practically sprints out onto the back porch. The cold smacks her in the face but it barely registers; she doesn't have it in her to care about the goosebumps prickling her skin or the breath she can see in front of her. Her fingers shake around the cigarette, and she's almost amazed she even gets it lit.

Taking a long drag, she inhales for a long few seconds before exhaling slowly, letting the smoke settle into her lungs.

"Shit," she mutters to herself as she slides down onto the step, legs curled nearly at her chest. "Shit."

She feels like she's been taken back seventeen years, pacing in her bathroom thinking nothing but  _this really shouldn't be happening_. It really shouldn't be. Joyce closes her eyes, digs in the heel of the hand not holding the smoke.

Karen warned her back then, made her promise she’d thought it through and knew what she was doing. Of course she'd said yes; she was seventeen, pregnant, scared out of her damn mind, and to top it all off the father was going off to war. They weren't a couple and he might die over there. So she'd said yes, figured Lonnie would either bail out to leave her alone or take on the kid as his own—because he'd think he  _was_ his own, of course.

She hadn't thought it through completely, but at seventeen she wasn't thinking twenty years down the road. She was thinking more along the lines of nine months, maybe a year at most.

Karen.

Huh, maybe she'll call her old friend. She's the only other person who knows the truth and she could really use someone to talk to right about now.

She doesn't notice the neglected cigarette until the ash topples from the top and lands on her sock. Grumbling out a low expletive, she puts the smoke out on the wood of the steps and tosses it into the small pail at the bottom.

"Mom?"

Her eyes fly open at the sound of her son's voice, and she looks over her shoulder to find Will staring down at her. His thin arms wrapped around his body, he shivers, and guilt floods her system.

Standing, she puts her hand on his back and turns him around, ushers him inside. "Come on, baby," she says, rubbing her hands along his forearm to warm him up. "It's too cold outside, Will, you should be in a jacket if you're going out."

"We were looking for you," he tells her in response. "You didn't have a jacket on, and you're shaking."

No she's not. Is she?

Finally stopping to take everything in, she realizes she is shaking. Her skin is cold to the touch.

"I'm an adult," is all she can come up with, because she can't tell him she didn't feel it in the midst of her internal breakdown. "Now go get ready for dinner."

Will huffs but does as he's told, shuffling through the kitchen and down the hall. Jonathan finds her as soon as she closes the back door and makes her way back over to the oven.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and immediately rips it back. "Mom, you're freezing."

"I'm okay." She shakes her head. "Just forgot to put a coat on when I went out for a smoke, that's all."

"If you'd quit you wouldn't have to worry about that."

Joyce smiles and presses a kiss to his temple, well aware that her lips are likely ice against his soft skin. "Let's get this meal going."

* * *

She's thrilled to hear from Jonathan, after some nonchalant questioning, that the blood typing lab isn't taking place until the following Monday. They only sent the permission slips out early so they'd all have a chance to get them back in on time. This gives Joyce six days to work up the courage to either let herself break down in the privacy of her bedroom after the kids have gone to bed, or call Karen and see if she'll meet.

After four days of fighting off panic attacks and pushing back tears she can't bear to shed, she finally picks up the phone.

As expected, Karen is a little surprised to hear from her. Their contact these days mainly occurs when the boys get together at either house; really, it's when Will goes over the Wheeler's because she usually insists on driving him herself. If it's not her, it's Jonathan.

They've really drifted apart in recent years. It wasn't anybody's fault, and it wasn't on purpose, it was just the result of life taking them in different directions. Karen is busy with baby Holly, who's not much of a baby anymore, two teenagers, and a husband who's about as useful as stale bread. And Joyce... well, she's busy with her own boys and working long, grueling hours at Melvald's just to keep the lights on.

Their schedules just don't line up as much as they used to.

"I was wondering if uh—if you'd be able to get together," she stutters into the phone, gripping at the neckline of her shirt as if it's choking her, making it too hard to breathe.

Karen doesn't do well keeping the shock from the lilty  _oh_ that comes in response. "Yeah," she says, her voice high. "Yeah, Joyce, of course."

She exhales. "Great, okay. When are you free?"

"I'm always free," her friend laughs, and Joyce ignores the pang of jealousy. She almost forgets Karen is a stay at home mom, doesn't have the same financial struggles she's saddled with that makes it impossible to even think about doing the same. "How a bout a half hour? My place? The kids are all out at the arcade, and Ted..."

"Is being Ted?"

"Pretty much. He'll be confined to the living room, and we'll have the rest of the house," Karen confirms. There's a brief pause and then, "And I have alcohol. I have a feeling you'll need it."

Joyce rolls her eyes but she's grateful. 

"Thanks, Karen. I'll see you soon."

After she hangs up the phone she feels marginally better, a little lighter around the shoulders, and it's not much at all but she'll take it.

* * *

She wrings her hands all the way up to Karen's door, only stops long enough to knock.

"Joyce," Karen beams not thirty seconds later, the door swinging open. "Come in, come in. Say hi, Ted."

Her husband mumbles something that might be construed as a hello, and Karen simply rolls her eyes with a huff, tugs Joyce's arm to drag her into the kitchen. She wasn't lying when she said she had alcohol; on her counter sits bottles of wine, vodka, and bourbon.

"Wow."

"I wasn't sure what kind of liquid courage slash comfort you were in need of, so I just brought out everything." Karen turns then, juts her hip out to lean against the island. "Speaking of, what is this about?"

Joyce immediately glances back to the living room where Ted's sitting in the recliner, but Karen merely waves her off.

"He isn't paying attention," she promises with a flick of her dainty wrist. "He hasn't paid attention to anything in years."

Hell, maybe after she gets all of this off of her chest there'll be some girl talk Karen needs to have, too.

Sighing, she relents. "Okay. You know that thing... that thing that happened seventeen years ago..."

Karen blinks. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific, honey. A lot of things happened seventeen years ago."

"The thing." She doesn't want to outright say it, whether Ted's listening or not. It's almost as if she says it it'll be more real than it already is, as if it'll jinx something and what little resolve she has will crumble at her feet. "With a certain seventeen year old and his relation to Jim Hopper."

That gets a response; eyes widened in understanding and a small gasp. Without missing a beat, Karen reaches over and grabs hold of one of the glass bottles.

"Vodka," she says definitively. "You definitely need vodka."

* * *

"Okay, so run this by me one more time. You started thinking about it... two years ago?"

Joyce sighs. "About around the time Will went missing." Karen nods along, tries to follow. "It's always been there in the back of my mind, obviously, but it was kind of like something that pops up every once in a while but then goes away. It wasn't a conscious thought."

"But him helping you bring Will back changed that."

"Yeah. And ever since then he's been around more often, you know. Fixing little things in the house so I don't have to, bringing El around to hang out with Will. He took my boys Christmas shopping, Karen."

"Christmas shopping? Jim Hopper? He doesn't exactly seem like the jolly holiday shopping type," she points out, taking a sip of her vodka soda. The two of them, coming to the consensus that they're no longer in high school and will not do shots of straight vodka, mixed it with lime juice and sprite.

Nodding, Joyce agrees. "I know. But apparently he needed to do shopping anyway and the boys tagged along."

"How'd that go?" Karen asks.

Blowing out a breath, she's not entirely sure how to answer that. "Good, I guess?"

"No, there's more than it to that. What is it?"

"He bought them each something," she says, chewing on her bottom lip. "And me. He bought me stuff too. He paid for one of the boys' gifts to me because he said I deserved it."

Karen's intrigued. "What was it?"

"Well, he bought me a new coat and a necklace with mine and the boys' birth stones on it."

"Aw, that's sweet, Joyce," her friend coos and she sighs.

"And... he paid for them to get me a heating pad. For my back, for the days when work has me bent over in pain." She leans her head back, closes her eyes. "I mean, I didn't even know the boys  _realized_ I was in pain."

Karen scoffs at that. "Of course they notice, Joyce. You're their mother—they know."

They're silent for a few minutes, Joyce rubbing the bridge of her nose and Karen sipping at her drink and waiting her out. Talking it through with someone is helping, she thinks; it's good to get it off of her chest, but it's also bringing it all back up and that's exactly what she doesn't want.

Bringing it up just sends her into a spiral and that's what she's hoping this little girl talk will thwart.

"Okay," Karen starts after a decent amount of time, "so I get why you're thinking about it and all, but what spurred this..." She gestures vaguely, waves her hands around the two of them, "little session? Not that I'm not thrilled—I've missed you, Joyce—but there has to be something else."

"They're doing blood typing in biology."

That gets a confused nod from Karen. "Yeah... Nancy came home with a permission slip the other day," she says slowly. "But what..." Realization dawns a few seconds later, and her mouth drops open. "Oh."

"Yeah,  _oh_."

"Shit."

"I know." Joyce groans, throws her face into her palms. "I'm B- which is kind of rare, I think, but Lonnie's A-. That's a common blood type. It's entirely possibly Hop's also A-, right? Or A?"

Karen nods, possibly a little too quickly to be genuine. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, sweetie, he could be."

"He has to be, Karen. If he's not..."

"Why don't you ask him?"

She looks at her friend like she has three heads. "What?"

"Ask him," Karen repeats, as if it's the easiest thing in the world, the most obvious solution. "It'll give you peace of mind."

"And if he's not?"

"Then you'll know," she says softly, reaching over to grab Joyce's hand. "Joyce, if he is then you can breathe a sigh of relief. Jonathan will come back knowing his blood type is compatible with you and Lonnie and nothing will change. But if he's not, and Jonathan is about to come home confused and with some questions, at least you'll be ahead of it. You'll see it coming and you won't be blind sighted."

She really hates how much sense Karen's making. Knowing ahead of time will give her the necessary prep time to figure out what she's going to say. What she'll tell Jonathan when he asks why his blood type is one that couldn't possibly have come from the combination of her and Lonnie's.

"I hate it when you're smart, you know that," she teases weakly, a watery chuckle escaping.

Karen grins. "I know you do." Patting the top of her hand, she hums. "I've always been smart."

Peering up at her from beneath her lashes, Joyce gives her a look. "Please don't say I told you so. I don't think I can handle it right now."

"I'm not. I  _did_ say it'd be something you'd have to deal with eventually, but I never wanted to be right, Joyce."

She knows that, too. Karen, as flaky as she could be in high school, always had her best interest at heart as her best friend. It didn't always show in the most noticeable or conventional ways, but she did.

"How am I supposed to ask Hopper what his blood type is without making him suspicious?"

Karen hums. "That's a good question."

"Helpful," she deadpans. "This was your plan, you know."

"I didn't say it was foolproof! It's just the most efficient option." She pauses. "Maybe... say you were watching a documentary or something? That you were curious?"

Joyce shakes her head. "I don't watch much tv and Hop knows that. I don't have time."

"Okay," Karen breathes. "What about... Oh! Tell him you saw a list of the most common and most rare blood types. Tell him you're one of the more rare ones, right? And then say you were curious about his."

Considering this, Joyce stares off at the far wall. It's not the most normal thing in the world to say, but it's probably the most inconspicuous way she could possibly bring this up. Short of just blurting out the question, this is all she's got at this point.

"I guess."

Slumping back into Karen's plush chair in Ted's office— _he never uses it anyway_ , she’d said—she heaves out a breath. Okay. Okay; she has a plan. It's not the most foolproof, but when it's the result of two women after a few vodka sodas, what does she expect? It'll have to do.

If Hop's a little confused that's okay. If his blood type matches Lonnie there'll be no further questioning, ever, and he'll never have to know the true origin of the inquiry.

"That's my girl," Karen beams. Refilling Joyce's cup, she pats her knee. "You're not driving anywhere right now, so just relax. Take a nap on the couch if you want. It looks like you could use one."

"Thanks," she muses, rolling her eyes. "Always so flattering."

The woman looks at her, her features softened, and through Joyce's hazy vision and cloudy mind she can make out a soft smile.

"Rest, Joyce."

And so she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you wonderful, wonderful readers.
> 
> Little disclaimer: I have no idea when blood typing became a thing that was done/done in schools. All I could find was info about when they realized they could separate blood types and stuff like that, so if there are inaccuracies I apologize!


	11. Chapter 11

It's Saturday night when Joyce finally musters up the courage to give Hopper a call.

The boys have migrated to their bedrooms, and after checking to make sure Will's tucked in nice and snug and Jonathan's situated with his headphones in, as per usual, she strides back into the kitchen and stands in front of the phone. It's simple, really. Pick up the phone, dial the number, wait for him to answer.

Simple, perhaps, if the state of her and her son's lives didn't ride on the outcome of the phone call in question.

 _Simple_ , she scoffs at herself. 

Nothing about this is simple. There are a number of adjectives she'd use to describe this situation and simple doesn't even breach the list. It's not even on the radar.

It's just after 10:00 and she knows he's off of work by now, knows he wouldn't already be asleep. There's really no reason at all for her not to call, other than her own fears, her own selfish pride.

Sucking it up she grabs at the phone, if not a little aggressively, and dials Hop's number. It rings once, twice, before he picks it up. A part of her was wishing he would be asleep, or out of the house, or something else that resulted in there being no answer.

"Hop, hi."

Keep it normal, Joyce. Anything else would be suspicious.

"Joyce? Is everything okay? Is it Will?"

She really  _should_ call him more, that way he doesn't assume the worst when she does, doesn't assume the world is ending or her son has been taken again. The concern in his voice warms her skin, though. The slight edge tells her he's ready to run out the door if he needs to.

It’s sweet.

"Everything's fine," she assures him. She even manages a laugh, as if that's a ridiculous assumption. "What, a friend can't call her friend?"

"They can," he says slowly, and she wonders by the gravely tone of his voice if he was lying down. "It's just that you usually don't."

"I should."

"You should," Hop agrees. "So what's the occasion then?"

Taking a steeling breath, Joyce turns so her back is resting against the wall just beside the phone. The cord gets twisted around her arm but she doesn't mind, instead takes hold of it and twirls it around her fingers to calm her nerves.

"What's your blood type?"

There, it's out.

There's a brief silence. "I'm sorry?"

"Blood type, Hop. Do you know yours?" she asks, voice purposely light.

"You're not planning to murder me in my sleep, are you? Because I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be the one helping you hide the body and, well, I can't do that if _I'm_  the body."

That pulls a genuine laugh from her throat, and she gives a little roll of her eyes. "I wasn't, but now that you mention it I  _did_ have a problem with the way you shoveled your truck out the other day. Very poor form."

"And that's obviously grounds for murder."

"Of course."

Hopper snorts. "I'm sorry you don't approve of my snow-removing technique."

"Apology accepted. I suppose the murder can be pushed back to a later date."

"Thanks," he grunts, but there's amusement on his end. She can tell. "Really, what's with the question?"

Karen's excuses in mind, she pulls her lips into a thin line.

"I saw something in one of Jonathan's school books about the rarest blood types," she says, aiming for nonchalance, "and I realized mine's super rare. Karen's is really common, so I was curious about yours."

"So you're... polling your friends' blood types?"

"I'm  _bored_ , okay, Hop? Not much goes on around here after 6:00."

He laughs, the sound soothing her to the core. "Okay, okay." He pauses, makes a low, thoughtful noise. "I'm... AB+, I think? So, how rare's that?"

She doesn't register the question as he asks it, just gets tunnel vision as soon as he says he's AB+. Lonnie's A- and she's B- so... they're all AB, B, or A, which means Jonathan's blood type should show to be compatible. Oh, thank god. Heaving out a sigh of relief, Joyce nearly slides down the wall before she gets caught in the phone cord and realizes what she's doing.

"Joyce?"

Blinking, she clears her throat. "Hmm?"

"How rare is that?"

"Oh—pretty rare, I think." She doesn't actually know, didn't really look at any of Jonathan's biology books, but she figures it's a 50/50 shot. It's either rare or it's not, and she's never known anyone else to have that blood type, so odds are it's gotta be rare, right? "Always got to live to the beat of your own drum, don't you."

Now that she's content Jonathan won't encounter any odd results, she can breathe again. 

He grumbles. "You know it."

When he lets out a long yawn, she tells him to go to sleep and get some rest. He objects, insists he's not tired, but at the second yawn she's having none of it and threatens to hang up on him if he doesn't just go already.

"Night, Hop."

He murmurs a goodnight into her ear and then she's hanging the phone back into place and clutching at her chest. Blowing out a breath, she leans back against the wall and allows her eyes to flutter closed.

That was close; too close for comfort.

But for the time being she can breathe easy, and so with a flick of a switch she basks the kitchen in darkness and patters down the hallway into her own bedroom for what will likely be the first restful night of sleep she's had in a while.

* * *

On Monday morning she wakes not with a feeling of absolute dread but one of contentment. Wandering into the kitchen she finds Jonathan working on eggs and bacon, and she walks up behind him, presses a kiss to his hair.

"Morning, Mom," he says, keeping his eyes on the pan in front of him.

"Did you wake Will?"

Jonathan turns for a second. "I heard noise in his room when I got up so I figured he was already awake."

She pushes back the instinctive panic that latches onto her throat and gives Jonathan a look. "I'll go check on him," she says a little hastily, sprinting down the hallway and to her son's bedroom. Broaching the door, she gives a little knock before easing it open. "Will?"

Her chest loosens at the sight of him, standing at the foot of his bed with his school bag propped up. "Morning, Mom," he smiles, shoving the final contents into the bag. "I forgot to pack it last night."

Joyce chuckles as he joins her in the doorway, tugs him into her side and ruffles his hair. "It's okay, baby," she says, squeezing his shoulder. "Give me your bag; I'll put it by the door while you eat your breakfast."

Will hands her his backpack with a grateful grin and skips into the kitchen, sliding into one of the chairs. He starts talking to his brother, something about a game she doesn't understand, and then Jonathan puts some scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate for him.

"Mom?"

"Oh I'm okay, sweetheart."

"You have to eat something," he counters, fixing her with a look that's so very  _Hop_ it's almost startling. She's taken aback by it because she's not used to it; or maybe she's just never made the connection before, not when she was too busy relegating it to the back burner. "You have work all day, and we all know you won't make yourself lunch to bring in."

With a small laugh she acquiesces, bows her head in surrender as she joins her boys at the table.

"Thank you, Jonathan," she says when he puts a plate in front of her. He's filled it rather generously, as if she doesn't eat at all and this will be her only meal for the entire week. “Jeez, I'm eating for two here."

The two of them look at her oddly, and she pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"Mom?"

" _What?_ " Putting the eggs down, she just stares back at them for a second before it dawns on them. "Oh. Boys,  _relax_ ," she laughs. "I just meant that you put a lot of food on my plate, Jonathan."

Both of their faces tinge a light shade of pink, but she watches Will's shoulders relax and Jonathan shoots her a sheepish smile.

"Sorry."

Rolling her eyes, she lifts her fork back up and continues to eat her breakfast. She really has no idea where Jonathan got his cooking skills because it certainly isn't from her, and neither Lonnie nor Hopper, to the best of her knowledge, are any better than she is.

She picks at a piece of bacon. "Really, you two."

"Sorry, Mom," Will echoes his brother. "It'd just be... weird."

Her eldest nods along. "Really weird."

"Okay, well I'm not pregnant so this conversation can end right here," she says, pushing her seat back and standing. "Now let's go, you two are going to be late."

Her boys grin at each other but do as they're told, both of them getting up to put their empty dishes into the sink. Joyce hands Will his bookbag when he passes and pulls him into a hug.

"Have a good day, honey."

Jonathan follows not too far behind, and when she gives him a hug he says teasingly into her ear, "I'm glad you're not pregnant, Mom."

Shoving him out the door, she shakes her head. "Go learn something, please," she says, grinning at the sound of Jonathan's laughter that trails behind him. 

She stands in the doorway until the car is out of sight, waving to her boys.

Glancing at the clock on the wall she realizes she still has about twenty minutes before she has to leave for work, and so she opts to, for once, actually finish the breakfast Jonathan made for her. She sits back down at the table and chews on some bacon, finishes off the eggs. 

She'll be full for the rest of the day, that's for sure.

* * *

By the time she gets out of work she's dragging her feet, rubbing at her temples and dying to collapse into bed. Customers were insufferable today, she had the same woman complaining about 15 different things, and she had to re-stock some of the shelves, which means her back is on fire and her feet feel like they're ready to fall off.

Tonight might be the night to test out the heating pad she got for Christmas. Just the mere thought of lying down with it relaxes her the tiniest bit, has her closing her eyes and envisioning it.

The boys are out of school by now, but she's surprised to find Jonathan's car in front of the house. Usually he'll drop his stuff off and then he'll go over to the Wheeler's for a few hours to hang out with Nancy. Sometimes Will goes with him, but other times he'll stay home—it took a long time for her to be okay with Will at home by himself for more than an hour or so, but he’d pleaded and everything has been okay so far.

Walking through the door, she dries her shoes on the floor mat. When she looks up she notices Jonathan's sitting alone at the table.

"Jonathan?" she questions. He's staring at nothing in particular, and it's... a little concerning. "Is everything okay? Where's Will?"

He looks up, shakes his head. "Will's in his room."

"Okay," she says slowly. "What's wrong? Is something going on?"

Her son doesn't say anything for a few minutes and she almost wonders if he heard her at all, if he's not in his own little world right now. Putting her stuff down onto one of the chairs she waits him out, leans her hand on the table and places the other on his arm.

The contact seems to spur something and he lifts his head, looks into her eyes.

"Am I yours?"

Her forehead wrinkles. "What?"

"Your kid. Am I your kid?"

Oh. Her heart speeds up but she keeps her composure, squeezes at his shoulder. "Of course, baby."

He gives a slow nod, wringing his hands together on the surface of the table. "Okay. Then I'm not dad's, am I?"

Eyes wide, her mouth turns to cotton and she feels the sudden urge to throw up. Keeping her hand on his shoulder she slowly lowers herself into the chair; she needs to be sitting for this, right here, no matter now badly her flight response tells her to flee.

"Jonathan," she gives a small laugh, tries to keep calm. "You're—what would make you think that?"

Reaching in front of him, he slides a thick piece of paper stock from the other side of the table; she hadn't even noticed it, but it has four circles at the top and... oh. It's the blood typing test. Pulling it towards her, she stares at it. Two of the circles are more solidly filled in, the other two are a little spotty, but she doesn't...

"I'm sorry, baby, I don't—what does this mean?"

"It means my blood type is A+," Jonathan says, a slight edge to his voice. "I called dad to ask him his blood type when you said you didn't know it. He's A-."

She's a little surprised Jonathan called Lonnie to find out what his blood type is, but it shouldn't be a problem. This doesn't make sense. She's B-, Lonnie's A- and Hopper's apparently AB+. She knew Jonathan was A+, but that shouldn't raise any alarms.

"Okay," she says, trying to understand even as her heart hammers against her ribs. "An A+ baby is normal for parents with A and B blood types, Jonathan."

"Yeah, but you're both Rh-, Mom," Jonathan says, and she can tell he's getting worked up. Exasperated and frustrated and  _oh_ , this is exactly what she didn't want to happen. "Two Rh- parents can't have an Rh+ kid."

Joyce's face pales, every ounce of color training from her skin. Her hands feel clammy and she resists the urge to pull them away from her boy and wipe them on the fabric of her jeans.

It's been a long time since she took Biology and while she was never under the impression she was a star student, she did pretty well. Apparently, though, it would seem that everything relating to Rh in the blood slipped away with time. Shit. 

She didn't even think about that, doesn’t even remember learning it at all.

All she can do is stare just past Jonathan, avoiding his questioning eyes, his stoic face, and focus on regulating her breathing. It quickens with each passing second, and she has to swallow it back, force herself to glance at him.

"Jonathan..."

"Am I Lonnie's?" is all he says, his voice hard.

That he's already switched to Lonnie and not 'dad' tells her he's pretty much figured it out, just wants her to confirm it. It doesn't hurt as much as it should, probably, that her son is distancing himself from the only father he's ever known. Though truthfully, blood or not, Lonnie's never been parent of the year.

Science doesn't lie, she thinks mournfully, and there's nothing she can do to talk her way out of this one or come up with an explanation.

Gathering every ounce of courage she has, she looks Jonathan in the eyes and gives him a sympathetic, soft expression. She grabs hold of his hand, flinching slightly when his fingers twitch, as if he wants to pull back.

"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a few days late. It's spring break and it would appear time is an illusion and I had no idea it was already Friday. Regardless, hope you're all enjoying the ride x


	12. Chapter 12

"No?" Jonathan grits out, eyes a little wild. "I'm—I just found out that the person I thought was my dad for my entire life isn't and you just say  _no?_  Mom..."

"Jonathan, honey," she starts. Her fingers squeeze his and this time he does pull away, instead runs them through his hair. "I know... I know this is a lot and it's something you should've known from the start—"

He snorts. "Yeah, I think I should have." Exhaling, he looks at her with a shrug. "So who is it, then? Who's my dad?"

Joyce hesitates, mouth opened slightly but no sound coming out. Pulling her lips together, she swallows, gives her son a look of complete sympathy. Mixed with guilt. Definitely some guilt. 

She doesn't... she needs to tell him, she knows, but she just can't help but feel like she needs to tell someone else first.

"He's... Listen, sweetheart, I promise I'm going to tell you," she assures him, and he gives her an incredulous look, one she hasn't seen in her seventeen years as his mother. It's not a look she wants to see ever again.

"But you're not going to tell me  _now_ ," he surmises, sliding back. The chair screeches against the tiled flooring and makes her wince.

Instinctively she reaches out to grab at his arm to keep him from leaving. She doesn’t want to let him go, can't let him run off right now, not when emotions are so high and she doesn't know what he'll do to blow of steam.

"Jonathan, please."

"Please  _what_ ," he asks, his shoulders slumped in what looks to be almost defeat. She doesn't want that either. "Please... understand that you've kept a huge secret from me? Please stay and listen to you not tell me who my father is?"

"I  _will_ , baby, I'm going to tell you," she promises, staring up at him with tears in her eyes. They're from both sadness and frustration and she doesn't even know which one is the dominant emotion right now. "But I need to..."

Something like realization sparks in his eyes. "He doesn't know, does he? That he has a kid?"

That's a loaded question; he doesn't know he has  _another_ kid, more like it, but she won't make the distinction right now. He'll figure it out soon enough, as soon as he knows who his father is.

"Does he know about me?" he asks again, rephrasing it this time in hopes she'll break the silence she's taken on.

"No," she croaks, accompanied by the tiniest shake of her head. Averting her gaze, she can't look at her son. "He doesn't know."

Jonathan makes a pained little noise in the back of his throat and when she chances a glance up, he's shaking his head, rubbing at the back of his neck with one of his hands. He's always been so much older, wiser than his years, but right now he looks like a small boy.

"At least I can't hold that against him then," he muses, and a sharp jolt goes through her chest at the insinuation that he might hold this against her. She can't say she'd blame him, not after how long she's kept something so monumental from him, but she hopes beyond hope he won't. Not for long, at least. "I'm strangely glad I wasn't the only one kept in the dark."

Standing from her chair, she takes a step towards Jonathan but he backs away, effectively splintering her heart down the middle.

"Jonathan..."

Her voice is shaky, eyes watery, and her hands tremble where they reach out at nothing before curling into her chest.

"I just need some time, okay," he says, rubbing harshly at his eyes. He moves his hands around, gestures at nothing in particular, before blowing out a frustrated breath. "I need to go... think this through." 

She opens her mouth to say something but he shakes his head. 

"I'm not doing anything stupid."

"Okay," she says, her voice a light rasp, because that's all she can say.

As much as she doesn’t want to, she owes it to him to let him go, to let him process what he's just learned in his own way and his own space. She gets that; it doesn't mean she won't worry, won't panic herself into another anxiety attack until he returns and she knows he's safe and sound.

Without another word he moves around her, grabs his bag from where he'd put it earlier, and closes the door. It slams louder than she knows he intended it to; he's not an angry kid. A little broody, sure, and he has his moments, but furiously slamming a door has never been his thing.

She doesn't think much of it and slides back down into the chair, tears on her cheeks and her face in her open palms.

While she knew Jonathan wouldn't exactly be  _happy_ about the news if he found out, she did think he'd take it a little better. Then again, maybe he handled it exactly as she'd expect. Some frustration, some betrayal in those eyes, but he didn't scream or throw things. That was always Lonnie's way of dealing with conflict; Jonathan's quieter, more likely to run through everything in that busy head of his first.

"Mom?"

Snapping her head up, she hastily swipes beneath her eyes before turning to look at her boy. "Hi, honey," she says. The sniffle and red-rimmed eyes, matched with the tear stains on her cheeks, give her away, but she musters a smile for him anyway.

He shouldn't have to be pulled into this.

"What's wrong?" Will asks, taking a few slow steps towards her. "Where'd Jonathan go? I heard you guys yelling."

"We just—there's something I have to talk to Jonathan about and he needs some time to process it first."

His big eyes, such replicas of her own, look thoughtfully at her. "Is it... something bad? Is he in trouble?"

"No, baby," she promises, wrapping one arm around his waist to pull him closer. "He's not in trouble, and it's not something bad. It's just something different, and something that'll be an adjustment for all of us."

"Me too?"

Joyce pauses, considers her next move. In a way it does affect Will. 

Once Hopper and Jonathan know the truth, there are so many ways this could play out. They could both want to get to know each other in this new way; one could want that while the other could want nothing to do with it; both of them could choose to keep things how they are and change nothing about the dynamics. She truly hopes it's not the middle option, because if it is she knows it'll be Hopper rejecting Jonathan and not the other way around—she knows he's upset now, but she has a feeling Jonathan will come around—and she doesn't know if he can deal with that. She doesn't know if  _she_ can.

Then, of course, Hopper could be furious with her and choose to cut ties. This would result in a new level of awkward and tense, and could potentially influence the time El spends in her house and therefore with Will.

She really hopes that doesn't happen, especially after how close they've gotten recently, but Hop has every right to be angry.

If he chooses to cut her off she can only hope it'll either be temporary or, if all else fails, they leave the kids out of it. They don't have to suffer for a choice she made nearly two decades ago, long before they were even born.

"Yeah," she finally breathes, "it might affect you too, sweetie."

Will nods a little, then turns to wrap his other arm around her shoulder and give her a real hug. "It'll be okay," he says, his voice so confident and pure she can't help the small sob that breaks free.

"I hope so, Will," she admits into his neck, squeezing him tighter. "Thank you."

* * *

She needs to tell Hopper.

She 100%, absolutely, positively needs to tell Hopper, both because he deserves to know and because she needs to tell Jonathan but she can't feel content doing that until Hopper knows. Ignoring the million and one ways this colossal shit show wouldn't be happening if she'd just listened to Karen that day in the diner, she gathers every ounce of pride she has and chucks it out the window.

This isn't about her, it's about her son. Everything that happens from here on out has to be done in Jonathan's best interest and with his feelings in mind.

That's how she finds herself sitting in the police station's parking lot in her little green car. She hasn't gotten out yet, but she feels even driving here and pulling into the lot is a pretty big first step.

She told Will that she had to go take care of a few errands and made sure he was comfortable staying at home for what could be a few hours, depending on how the errands pan out. He, of course, assured her he was fine and would be fine for however long they took.

With trepidation, Joyce looked into the bathroom mirror at her reflection. She felt seventeen years old again, staring at herself, all puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. She cleaned her face and, with a soft hand, re-applied what little makeup she wore to make herself feel like a functioning adult. It's a placebo effect, of that she has no doubt, but it makes her feel even a little more put together than she actually is.

And when her entire life seems to be cracking at the seams, crumbling from the top down and barely being held together with glue and tape, she'll welcome anything that can make it seem a little less chaotic, a little less broken.

After ten minutes, she turns off the car and slings her small bag over her shoulder. Step two.

Step three is getting out of the car, which she manages after another five minutes of psyching herself up.

She's carried on shaky legs down the sidewalk and through the front doors, and when she's greeted by Flo with a slightly bewildered look (whether by her disheveled, despite her best efforts, appearance, or by her mere presence alone she has no idea) and a  _hi, Joyce_ , she almost loses it.

Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to run, her flight response kicking into high gear, but she stands her ground.

"Hi, Flo," she greets warmly, offering the woman a smile. "Is Hopper in?"

"I think he's just run out for a coffee, honey," Flo says. "Complains about the sludge here day in and day out, and I finally told him to buy his own if he's so bothered."

Joyce laughs, a real laugh, because Flo's sass is exactly the change of pace she needs right now. "Ah," she breathes, her lips curled upwards. "Typical Hop."

"You can say that again," Flo replies, already busying herself with something or another. "I'm not sure how long he'll be but you can wait in his office if you're going to hang around. Sure he won’t mind."

Nodding, she leaves the main area and walks the familiar path to Hopper's office. She hasn't been in here since Will was gone, and lowering herself into that chair brings back painful memories of waiting while her boy’s well-being remained up in the air. Of anxious energy all bottled in her body as she forced herself to sit as rigid as she could; any sudden movements threatened to break the seal, to let the nerves out with no way to stop them.

Joyce feels a little like that now.

It's twenty minutes before she hears the familiar grumble of Hopper's deep voice down the hall, and in those twenty minutes she's managed to work herself into a near frenzy. Contained as it may be, relegated to simply her mind and the energy seeping from her fingertips, it's thrumming with every beat of her heart.

"Joyce."

Twisting in the chair, startled despite knowing he was coming, she looks at him. She must look as deer-in-the-headlights as she feels because he merely blinks at her for a few seconds, concern building behind his features, before moving forward.

"What's wrong?" he asks, gaze intense.

She clears her throat, rights herself in her seat and waits for Hop to round his desk. "It's Jonathan."

"Where is he? Is he okay?" Hopper asks. He leans forward, elbows propped on a stack of papers as he waits for more information.

"I don't know," she says honestly.

"You don't know where he is or if he's okay?"

She hopes he's okay, but there's no real way to know; she wouldn't blame him if he's not.

"No," she admits, but then her eyes are screwing shut in frustration, head shaking. "No, but he's not—it's nothing like that. It's not like Will."

"Okay." He drags the word out, brows furrowed. "I'm not following."

Blowing a breath out, she locks eyes with him. "He's... upset with me, for good reason, and he's gone somewhere to think. To process some things."

"So he's just blowing off some steam. I know you worry about those boys and hey, I get it, but Jonathan's a smart kid. He'll come back when he's ready."

She watches as he relaxes, leans back in his chair because he thinks that's it, that's all she came for. Just Joyce being a little overprotective of her son. 

She almost laughs in spite of herself; she wishes it were that easy.

"I know, I'm not worried about Jonathan coming home. I mean—I know he will," she amends. Nothing's coming out how she wanted it to. "He's rightfully upset, so I'll give him as long as he needs."

"Jeez, Joyce, what'd you do to the poor kid?" Hopper laughs. Wincing, she can feel the tears prick at the backs of her eyelids. When she doesn't laugh with him, doesn't make a quip and instead blinks in an attempt to keep the waterworks at bay, he reaches forward. "What is it?"

"What Jonathan found out is something I should've told him a long time ago," she breathes, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's something I should've told  _you_ , too, and you're—you're gonna hate me, Hop."

"What?" he scoffs. "What'd the kid find out?"

Slow and steady, Joyce.

"They did blood typing tests in their biology class today."

Hopper's face pales a little. "Did something come back? Is he sick?"

She shakes her head quickly. "No, no. It's nothing like that," she assures him. "Jonathan's fine. It was just a test that tells them their blood types."

"Oh," he says, confusion laced in his tone. "He didn't know his blood type before?"

"No. But that's not—that's not the  _point_ ," she sighs. She takes a steeling breath; this isn’t his fault. "Jonathan's A+. I'm B- and Lonnie's A-."

Hopper groans, rubbing at his eyes. "I've barely had my coffee, Joyce, I don't know what any of this means."

"Two parents with negative blood types can't have a baby with a positive blood type," she grinds out quickly, rattling off the information Jonathan had told her earlier, information she'd previously been unaware of.

It clicks.

"Jonathan's not Lonnie's son."

Joyce gives a small shake of her head. "No."

She can tell the gears are turning in his head by the conflicted, far away look on his face. He's not looking at her but at a spot far past her left shoulder, eyes a little squinted. Looking down, she watches his fingers curl and uncurl around one of the pencils on his desk.

"That's why you asked me what my blood type was, isn't it? Not because you saw something about rare blood types."

"Yes."

His breathing quickens, as if he didn’t expect her to say he was right. 

"Is he...” His forehead wrinkles. “Is Jonathan..." 

Her chin quivers as her eyes lift to his, everything he needs to know written in the dark brown of her glassy gaze. Hopper leans harshly back against his chair, nearly toppling it backwards before he rights himself. The pencil bends in his grip. 

“I don’t even know what I’m... supposed to  _say_ to that," he gets out. He doesn’t look at her, and it hits her all at once that he probably  _can’t_. “ _Fuck_ , Joyce.”

They’re silent for a few moments and she almost wishes he’d say something else. Anything else. Yell, scream,  _something_. 

The silence is deafening and it’s gnawing at her.

"I know—"

"No, you don't," he snaps, _finally_ , eyes flying to hers, and  _oh_. There’s a spark burning in them she's never seen before; not a warm, calm flame, but one that crackles and pops until it's a full blown explosion. "You kept this from me for  _seventeen years_. A son. Ourson.  _My_ son."

Hearing Hopper refer to Jonathan as  _our son_  nearly does her in. Her heart constricts painfully in her chest and suddenly it’s a little hard to breathe.

"Why?" She opens her mouth, doesn't know what she's going to say but ready to say it anyway, when he holds up a hand. "Actually no; no, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you kept my kid from me, Joyce."

Hopper stands from his chair, scrubs a hand down his face, and she's so terrified he's going to walk out that she nearly flies out of her own seat. She stands in front of him, extends an arm to put a hand on his forearm but he jerks it out of her reach.

Joyce swallows back the lump in her throat.

"Does he know?"

"No," she whispers. "That's part of why he's upset, because I wouldn't tell him who it was yet. I wanted to—I wanted to tell you first."

He lets out a mirthless laugh and it's so unlike him, so cold it freezes the blood in her veins.

"Now you want to tell me," he muses, putting his hat back onto his head. "After the kid found out and you were pushed into a corner."

"Hop, please..."

"I need to go. I need to—I can't be here right now." Moving around her, he dodges any of her attempts to touch him. When he does look at her, it's one part anger and one part pure sadness and it threatens to cripple her right there. "I can't be around you right now, Joyce."

Her face falls, hot tears cascading down her cheeks, but she lifts one hand to her mouth and manages the smallest of nods. 

She doesn't look at him.

"If I stay, I'll do something I regret, so I have to..." His voice trails off, and then he's gone, disappearing down the hall in quick strides until he's completely out of sight.

Joyce hiccups, every ounce of composure she had crumbling, bit by bit, until it's an avalanche. She sobs into her palm, her entire body shaking as she leans against the closest solid object and slides to the floor. Legs curled up to her chest, she lets her head fall back until it slams into the wooden side of the desk.

Staring at the ceiling, she doesn't even try to wipe at her face, knows she hasn’t cried herself out yet and it’ll be a waste.

At least, she thinks to herself, he said he can't be around her  _right now_. The phrasing implies there will be a time, hopefully in the near future, that he will be able to be around her.

It's all she can hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This WAS meant to be uploaded yesterday, but I got snowed in (fourth nor'easter of the month, sigh) where I was staying and didn't have my laptop with me. Hopefully it's worth the slightly extended wait!


	13. Chapter 13

Joyce manages to make something quick for dinner and get it on the table for Will, who's fidgety and far too quiet. There's tension in the house and she hates it, hates that her boy’s not his outgoing, energetic self right now and she’s to blame. He doesn’t know that, of course, but her traitorous brain won’t let her forget it.

She does her best to dispel the thickness in the air by asking him about the games she knows nothing about but he loves so much and how his day at school went. She didn't really get a chance to find out earlier, and she feels awful for neglecting him with everything that's happened today.

"Is Jonathan coming back?"

Smiling over at him, she reaches out and covers one of his hands with hers. "Of course," she promises. "He's just taking some time to himself."

It's been a few hours since Jonathan left, since she gathered up every ounce of courage in her body and told Hopper the truth, and he still hasn't returned. She's worried, nearly sick with it, but she knows he'll come back in his own time.

"I don't want you to worry about anything, okay, Will?" The look he gives her is full of hesitance and she wants so badly to wipe it off of his face. "This is for me to worry about, not you."

"But I can help, and then you won't have to worry by yourself."

Tears spring to her eyes at the thoughtfulness. She runs a hand down his hair. "Thank you, baby, but this is something I have to deal with."

His brows furrow. "You said it affects me too."

"It—it does, yes," she confirms, taking a breath. How can she explain this right now without giving much away. She can't tell him, not before she tells Jonathan and before she has some idea of how it'll all play out. "And I promise I'll explain it to you, but you just have to trust me for right now. Can you do that for me?"

Will lifts his head towards his mother, those big eyes staring back at her. "Okay," he decides.

Letting out a relieved breath, she shoots him a small smile.

"Thank you."

The rest of the dinner is relatively silent, though Will does try to fill it with little tidbits she'd asked about earlier; about school, about the progress of their Dungeons and Dragons game, about the AV club. She does her best to keep her attention on him and what he's saying because, bless the kid, he's  _trying_ , and when she notices herself zoning out she immediately snaps herself out of it.

He deserves her full attention; no matter what's going on, it's no excuse to ignore him, intentionally or not.

When they're finished he brings both of their plates up and puts them into the sink. Joyce remains seated at the table, fingers twitching, itching for a cigarette but wanting to wait until Will isn't within range.

"Love you," Will whispers, wrapping one arm quickly around her neck before he disappears through the hallway.

She doesn't deserve her sweet boy, but she’s forever grateful she has him. At least one of her sons can stand to be around her.

Once he's in his bedroom, Joyce plucks a cigarette from the pack she keeps in the kitchen cabinet. Lighting it, her eyes slip closed at the first exhale. Shit habit, she knows, but it's the only thing keeping her afloat right now, keeping her body from trembling uncontrollably.

She works herself through three cigarettes before finally putting the pack back and forcing herself to move into the living room. Waiting up for Jonathan seems like the least appealing option, and she knows he'd hate to find her awake and ready to pounce the second he walks through the door, but she doesn't know what else to do.

Going to sleep while he's out there somewhere, working through whatever emotions he's feeling, seems impossible.

By the time 10:00 rolls in and he's still not back, worry gnaws at her insides.  _He's fine, Joyce._

Eventually, she falls into a fitful sleep on the couch, half-covered by a blanket Will drapes over her sleeping form sometime during the night.

* * *

The phone's shrill ring is what jolts her from sleep, breathing ragged and her heart thumping aggressively in her chest. It's still dark outside as she slides from beneath a blanket she doesn't remember grabbing, arms curled into her body for warmth.

"Hello? Hello?"

Her eyes are still blinking away the remnants of sleep when the voice on the other end of the phone spreads relief through her system.

"Jonathan," she breathes, slumping a little against the wall. "Are you okay?"

It's a loaded question, but she truly does mean physically. Right now, at least.

"I'm fine," is what he tells her, his voice still prickled with anger. "I'm—I'm sorry I didn't come home last night. I couldn't yet. I just wanted to let you know I'm all right and I'll be going to school from here."

"School? From here?" Her brain's still a little foggy, but then it registers that it's Tuesday. There is school. "What time is it?"

"I'm getting a ride with Nancy. It's just after six."

Just after six. She managed a few hours of sleep, then; not much, but enough that she'll be able to survive the shift at work. She's done it on less, and though those are moments she's not proud of, it allows her the confidence for today.

"Oh, okay," she says then, rubbing at her face with chilled fingers. "Thank you for calling, baby, and I'm..." Her voice trails off, not because she forgot what she was going to say but because she's not sure she wants to say it over the phone. When she apologizes, again, and tries to explain, she wants it to be in person. "I'll see you later?"

There's a brief silence. "Yeah. Bye, Mom."

He hangs up before she can say anything else and she tries not to let it sting. She can't be mad at him, can't even be upset with him, but she can't help being upset in general. He's never been this mad at her, has never felt this betrayed.

Then again, she’s never done this to him before, either.

It's uncharted territories.

Putting the phone back on the wall, she figures she'll get some coffee in her system and let the caffeine perk her up a little before she has to wake up Will. She wants to be as normal around him as she possibly can, because the last thing he needs is to be any more worried about this—this thing happening. Worried about her, Jonathan, without truly knowing what's going on.

She changes out of yesterdays clothes and into her Melvald's uniform and, once she feels considerably more alive, she sits at the kitchen table and lights a cigarette. The familiar inhale has her eyes fluttering closed, the tiniest bit of relaxation coursing through her veins.

Jonathan keeps telling her to quit, and maybe one day she will. One day when she doesn't need it to calm her nerves, when she can get through the day without one to stave off the shaking of her hands, her fingers.

Today's not that day, and around 7:00 she moves quietly into Will's room.

"Will," she says softly, shaking at the lump beneath the covers. He shimmies a bit but doesn't really budge. "Will, sweetie, it's time to get up."

"Five more minutes," comes the sleepy mumble, distorted through his blanket.

Joyce chuckles, shakes a little more. "It's already seven, sleepyhead. I gave you ten extra minutes."

When Jonathan wakes him up it's usually around 6:50, because he knows his brother will lay in bed for a few minutes after the initial wake up. She knows it'll be more work to get him up now without the extra time to lay around, but she wanted to give him more actual sleep. He could use it.

Will groans and she covers her mouth with her hand. He never was a morning person; he gets that from her, she guesses, because she was the worst in high school. She remembers her parents ripping the covers from her body, sliding the pillow from beneath her head, the whole nine yards. She'd just moan and burrow further into the mattress itself.

Eventually they stopped trying so hard, and while she would get up she'd often be late to homeroom. Hopper would tease her, make note of her tousled hair and smirk as if he knew what she'd been up to beforehand. She'd roll her eyes and flip him off.

"Will," she tries again a moment later, shaking away the thoughts of a man whose name still squeezes at her heart.

"I'm up, I'm up." The lump finally moves, flips onto its back and her boy blinks sleepy eyes up at her. "Morning, Mom."

"Morning, baby. Up and at 'em, I'll get breakfast on the table."

"Jonathan's not back?"

She musters a smile. "He stayed with Nancy last night," she says, even if she's not sure it's the truth. He's getting a ride with her, and she can only hope he slept in the Wheeler's home and not anywhere else. "Now what do you want, pancakes or waffles?"

Will hums. "Waffles?"

"Coming up," she smiles, patting his comforter covered knee before heading back into the kitchen.

He trudges from his room maybe five minutes later, dressed and looking more lively than he did before. The waffles are not burned or even a little charred, and for that she's extremely proud as she places them in front of Will. Her hand dusts along his shoulder as she retreats back to the fridge for some orange juice.

"Thanks," he says around a bite. After a few moments, he lifts his head again. "Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you taking me to school, then?"

Shit. She didn't even make the connection between Jonathan leaving with Nancy and her having to take him herself.

"Yeah," she says, as if she hadn't completely forgotten that he needs a ride. "We'll have to leave a few minutes early so I can get to work on time, though, okay?"

Nodding, he shoves another piece of waffle into his mouth. "That's cool."

* * *

She drops Will off in front of the school with a side hug he tries to wriggle out of and a bright wave. She waits in that spot until he walks through the doors, ignoring the irritated horn from the car behind her. They can wait thirty seconds or let their kid out five feet from the grass, it's not that pressing.

Melvald's is the same as it was yesterday even if she isn't.

Customers still come in and she still makes pleasant conversation as she rings up their items, a practiced smile on her face. Donald still checks in halfway through her shift to make sure things are running smoothly, as if there'd ever be some catastrophic problem in one of the slowest stores in town.

Her eyes still trail to the windows around 1:30 when she knows Hopper has his break. He doesn't usually stop in, except that one time he insisted on bringing her lunch because she'd worked a double the night before, but he'll drive by and she always caches a glimpse of his truck.

Today, there's no truck. No Hopper.

It's stupid that it hits her as hard as it does. There are days he won't be able to take his lunch at 1:30 because of a dull, but still important town reason. There are days he goes to different places for lunch, which don't require driving past her store.

But this time it feels more deliberate, like there’s a more purposeful reason for him to avoid it. And there is. 

She avoids looking through the glass windows for the rest of the day, instead choosing to hyper-focus on the customers and the items stacked on the shelves.

* * *

Jonathan still picks Will up from school and brings him home. When she finally falls through the door after her shift, she releases a breath at the sight of two pairs of shoes on the mat.

Will's sitting at the kitchen table with a notebook open in front of him, scribbling quickly. She crosses the room, runs a hand along his back in greeting.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says, leaning over to peer at what he's drawing. "For fun or homework?"

He looks up at her from behind his bangs. "Homework for art class. Nothing big."

"Ahh." Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, she pours herself some water and turns back to her boy. "How was school?"

"It was good," he nods, then goes into a whole story about some kid who tried to knock over someone's lunch tray but ended up tripping himself. She's disgusted at the kid's behavior, can't keep the shocked look from her face, but she laughs at Will's recount of the entire thing. So animated, eyes wide and hands gesturing as he speaks.

This is what she’s missed.

When he finishes, he gives a little cock of his head. "Was work okay?"

"What? Yeah, baby, why do you ask?"

Will shrugs. "You look tired."

She knows dark circles have taken residence beneath her eyes, marring the already pale skin, but the events of the past twenty four hours must have truly taken a toll if Will's giving her that concerned look of his.

"Just a long day. I'm okay," she promises, pressing a kiss to his head. "Jonathan in his room?"

At her son's nod, she offers one last smile and makes her way down the hallway.

A part of her would love to wait until Jonathan's ready to come to her, to wait for him to make the first move, but she just can't sit around while he hoards himself in his room and ignores her. They need to talk about this, despite how uncomfortable it'll be for the both of them.

She knocks softly on the door and when there's no answer, she pushes it open slowly. Jonathan's laying on his bed, arms draped loosely over his torso—at least they're not angrily crossed on his chest, she reasons—with his headphones over his ears.

He notices her presence a moment later and hesitantly tugs them off. "Hi."

"Hi, sweetheart," she says, closing the door a little so Will can't hear, and moves to sit on the edge of his bed. "Can we talk?"

Jonathan gives a small shrug. "I guess we should."

"Yeah, we should."

"Are you going to tell me who my father is?" he asks. The anger dripping from his tone yesterday has since disappeared, replaced with a more subtle hinting of betrayal and sadness. It's not better or worse.

She nods. "Yes."

"Okay."

"But first I should—I need to tell you that keeping you in the dark for all of these years was never done to hurt you. I was trying to... I know why I did it to start, and I will tell you, but please know as the years went on it just became easier to keep it up than to tell the truth."

Jonathan shifts. "Okay," he says again, and she supposes there's not much else he can say yet. But then he sighs, glances at her. "And I know it wasn't to hurt me, Mom. You wouldn't do that, and I never thought you did, I just—I'm not really sure how I feel."

"That's okay," she promises immediately. "You don't have to know how to feel right now. You don't even have to know after I tell you the whole story, just—just know you can tell me, truthfully, anything you feel about it all."

"Okay. I will."

She pauses, staring down at her hands because she doesn't even know where she should begin. At the beginning, she supposes, but that requires telling him who his father is first and that's what's tripping her up. Not because she's ashamed, never ashamed, but she's scared of how he'll react.

A part of her thinks he's under the impression it's some random person she met back in the day, maybe a friend she lost connection with over the years. Not someone he already  _knows_.

"Jonathan," she starts, bracing a hand on his shin. Something to ground her. "Your dad, he—he's a good guy. He has his own baggage and a troubled past, like most of us do, but he's a really good guy."

"That's a plus, I guess," he says, sitting up a little straighter. "What's his name?"

Ah, there it is.

"James."

"James," he repeats, and she nods. "Okay."

"A lot of people called him Jim in school, because he thought James was too formal." She cracks a small smile, then takes a breath. "Most people called him Jim, actually, but I never did. That wasn't our thing, not unless it was something serious.” 

“So what did you call him?” Jonathan asks. 

The moment of truth. Her heart stutters and she tells herself to just do it, just get it over with. Quick, like a band-aid. 

“I called him Hop."

It takes a few seconds for it to register, for her words to truly reach him, but she knows the second they do. His eyes widen, mouth open a little bit, a look on his face she doesn't even know how to explain.

"Hop.  _Hopper_ ," he says incredulously. He sits up straight now, leans over. "Jim Hopper. The  _Chief_."

Joyce nods. She might make a noise of affirmation, maybe a small squeak, but she doesn’t know. She can’t be sure when she can't hear anything above the blood pounding in her ears.

"Hopper is my dad."

"Yes," she gets out. Jonathan's still beside her, stunned into a shocked silence. "Do you... have any questions about that?"

"Do I—I mean yeah, Mom. What the  _hell?_ " He blinks but doesn’t look at her, stares down at his lap with furrowed brows. "Is that why you never told him? Because it's Hopper and it was a one night stand and that's just how he—"

"Woah, woah," she cuts him off, eyes closed as she shakes her head. "Jonathan, no. No. That's not at all why I didn't tell him. He's a good guy, and you should know that considering all he's done for this family since Will went missing."

He sighs, shoulders slumping a little, but he doesn't deny it. She knows he's always had his reservations about Hopper, but she  _also_ knows he's looked up to him, that he's thought he was a good guy. 

“Fine,” he mutters, not completely convinced but with no rebuttal. “So... what was it then?”

With one more deep breath, she situates herself further onto the bed.

"I've known Hopper since high school. We hung out with different people but eventually we just... came together, had suddenly forged this friendship out of nothing. By junior year we were really close." She wrings her hands in her lap. "After graduation Karen, Mike and Nancy's mom, threw a party. I went, and so did Hopper, and we ended up sticking together."

Jonathan snorts like he understands where this is going, and she gives him a look. 

"We... well, we slept together that night," she says. There's no way to get around it. "We slept together, and then a few days later he was shipping off to Vietnam."

"Just like that? Just... hit and quit,” he scoffs, continuing before she can say otherwise. “He just  _left?_ "

"He was drafted, Jonathan," she tells him, ignoring the comment she knows is coming from a place of frustration. She does give him a pointed look, though, and he mumbles something and bows his head a little. "He had to go, and we'd known he was going well before graduation."

"Were you two dating?"

Her bottom lip pins itself between her teeth. "No, we weren't."

"So it  _was_ a one night stand," Jonathan says, elbows on his thighs as he looks up at her, almost daring her to deny it.

Okay, well...

" _Technically_ , in the literal definition, I guess, yes. But it wasn't a one night stand in the same way you're thinking of it, sweetheart. It wasn't at all like the rumors you hear about Hopper around town."

His brows quirk. "Are they rumors if they're true?" She purses her lips, ready to tell him to knock it off because people grieve differently and he should know that, but he softens at her expression. "Sorry. So why didn't you?"

"He was already gone when I found out I was pregnant. I had been dating Lonnie on and off, and the thing with Hopper happened during the  _off_ , and then he was in Vietnam and I was back together with Lonnie."

"So you... wanted to stay with Lonnie and just decided to tell him I was his?"

It sounds bad when he says it like that, as if the only reason she'd told the lie in the first place was to stay in a relationship with Lonnie. It wasn't like that, at least not completely, but it did make it easier. Being pregnant out of wedlock was bad enough, but being pregnant and alone? She'd have been chewed up even more than she was already.

"That’s not all of it." She shakes her head. "You have to understand, I got pregnant so young and I wasn't married—that was back then, and still is to some extent, a huge deal. Looking back, some of it was for selfish reasons. I’ll admit that. Sticking with Lonnie and having the town believe it was his baby lessened some of the disapproval that'd be thrown on me for being pregnant."

Jonathan nods, listening.

She pauses, contemplating her next words. "It’s true that I didn't want to have to tell Lonnie I was pregnant with Hopper's baby—they hated each other enough as it was—but like I said, he was gone. I didn't know if he would be coming back, because war is war and there are no guarantees. And if he did come back, I justified it by saying it'd be unfair of me. You know, to just show up on his door with a baby and uproot his big plans of moving to a city and becoming a big shot cop."

"Yeah, but that was— _I_ was—his responsibility too. Takes two to tango or whatever. Why did he get to just go off to a city and live his life? What about you?"

Joyce sighs, reaches over to grab his hand. "Hey, I don't want you to be mad at Hopper.  _Yes_ , it was his responsibility, but remember that he didn't know. That was my choice, I'm the one who made that decision; it's on me."

"I know, I just..." His voice fades at the end, and he scrubs at his eyes with the hand she isn't grasping. "I don't know. I guess I get why you did it when you found out, with the judgement and everything, but why keep it a secret after? Why keep that from me for seventeen years, even after Lonnie was out of the picture?"

"It was easier," she says honestly. "I know that's a real shit answer, Jonathan, but it's true. I'd been living the lie for so long it seemed almost impossible to do otherwise, and with each year that passed the reaction would just get worse, and I was digging myself a deeper hole, so I said nothing."

Silence blankets them, Joyce still holding her son's hand and Jonathan still staring at his lap. She doesn't say anything because she's said all she can, and now it's her turn to just wait him out, wait until Jonathan's ready to say something.

This means they sit there, neither speaking, for about five minutes.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

He breathes out, nods. "Yeah, okay. You told me everything I asked and now I know."

Joyce pauses for a moment. "Are we okay? I know you probably still feel betrayed and angry and upset, and you have every right to feel those things, but... I can't take the silent treatment, Jonathan."

"We're okay, Mom," he says, lifting his eyes to her. "I'm—yeah, I'm still upset and it's still way too weird, I guess, but there's nothing we can do to take it back. It's done, and I'm not... we're okay."

Leaning forward, she wraps her arms around him and when he actually hugs her back she lets out the breath she's been holding for over a day now. She's not completely relaxed, really not anywhere near it yet, but she's significantly more content having had this conversation with him.

She knows it’s not over; this isn’t the only conversation they have to have, and she doubts he’s said all he truly needs to, but it’s a start.

"I love you, sweetheart. And I'm sorry."

"Love you too, Mom," he says. When they pull back, there's an odd look on his face. "How'd he take it?"

"What?"

"You said you couldn't tell me until you told him, so I'm guessing you already told him."

"Oh," she exhales. "He—he took it about as well as expected. He's upset."

Jonathan nods, a mix of emotions flashing across his face, but he doesn't say anything for a moment. Not until, "So, what's for dinner?"

And like that it’s over for now, and while she knows she has a bunch of shit to still wade through—talking to Hopper if he'll even look at her, telling Will somehow, figuring out how this new dynamic is going to play out—she doesn't feel as crushingly panicked as she did before.

It's not much, but she's grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Indistinct whistling] Nothing to see here, folks. Endless thanks, as always.


	14. Chapter 14

Hopper spends his time brooding around the cabin as soon as Joyce drops the news on him.

After the initial revelation, he didn't know what to do with himself; he left the precinct, gruffly telling Flo he's taking a few days off before speeding home. Maybe taking a few days off was a bit rash, but he’s never been informed of a secret child before either, so what the fuck does he know? 

He needs time. To himself, to stop. He may not be able to make time stop, but he  _can_ arrange to spend some time by himself. El's suspicion about his suggestion she spend a night or two at the Wheeler's is overpowered by the pure excitement over getting to have a sleepover, and he’s in the clear. 

He calls Karen ahead of time and asks if it'd be okay, at least had the presence of mind to do that much, and though she's understandably confused, she thankfully seems to get the picture. He doesn't want to talk about it, and she doesn't ask. He just needs El out of the cabin and away from him, because he knows he isn't going to be the best of company. 

In his dazed state he still manages to dish out some rules: no sleeping in the kid's room, and the rest of their little friends are going to be there too. It’ll be her first slumber party and she’s over the moon.

With her gone, he immediately goes for the fridge and pulls out a beer. He’s about to head back into the living room when he spins around again and grabs a second one. The first will go down like water, he knows, and he’s just saving himself the time.

Two beers turns into three, three into four, and the cycle continues until he’s out of beer. He’s not  _smashed_ , but he’s drunk enough to know he can’t go buy some more from the store.

In the alcohol’s absence, he’s forced to drink water. Oddly enough, it goes down with more of a struggle than the beer.

* * *

Nearly twenty four hours later, a whole day between Joyce’s truth bomb and his current state, he still hasn't gone out to get more beer. It’s mostly because he doesn't want to leave the cabin, but the fact that he’s still slumped on the floor with his back against the couch also has something to do with it.

He's gone through an entire array of feelings in the past day. Anger. Confusion. Frustration. Sadness. Shock. All of them intertwine with each other, blend into one giant mess of emotions he doesn't know how to navigate.

A kid.

He and Joyce have a  _kid_. Not just a kid, but a teenager. He has a fucking teenager.

And not just any teenager, but one he already knows. One he's watched grow and mature over the past two years. _Jonathan_. Joyce's boy, the one who stood up to him because he wanted to help find his little brother in the place of his mother. Only he isn't just Joyce's boy, he's his too.

His head is spinning.

He almost wishes it wasn’t Jonathan. Not because there’s something wrong with the kid, but because it’s so fucking weird. It’s jarring, completely surreal, and maybe if it was some random kid he’s never met before it’d be easier. A kid who doesn’t have an opinion of him already.

Jonathan doesn’t hate him, he’s at least fairly certain of that, but he’s under no impression that he’s on his top five people list either. He doesn’t have to be, he supposes, but knowing where he stands would be nice.

Hopper squeezes his eyes shut, pinches at the bridge of his nose until the dizziness passes. He should eat something, can’t actually remember the last time he shoved something other than drinks down his throat, but he doesn't have the energy to make it. Or microwave it, really, because hell if he'd actually cook something right now.

Jesus Christ. 

Maybe he's stupid for not figuring it out sooner. Now that he knows, knows Jonathan's his son, he can see it. The teen looks like him in ways he doesn't look like Joyce or Lonnie, in ways that, to the best of Hopper’s knowledge, he never did. But until almost two years ago, he'd only seen the kid a handful of times. 

The first time he saw him was when he was, what, eight years old?

He wonders if Jonathan looked like him as a small child. Maybe he did, and maybe if he'd run into Joyce earlier it would've been more obvious.

Maybe it would’ve jumped right out to him, he would’ve confronted Joyce, and the last fifteen or so years of his life would’ve panned out differently. Or maybe it wouldn't have. Maybe it would've just been another big mess of its own.

Hopper knows when it happened.

It was at Karen's post-graduation party, the night the two of them got sentimental and a little drunk and slept together in the back of his father's car. They were close enough to the house party to hear the music floating through the air and inebriated yells from their classmates, but far enough so that none of them even thought to wander to where he'd parked.

He doesn’t remember much from graduation but he remembers that night clearly, every moment of it. From the conversations they'd had in that car, to the first lingering glance and the way he'd leaned into her. She didn't tell him to stop, just sank into his chest, grabbed onto his hair and pulled him closer. It spiraled from there, the two of them lost in a haze of strewn clothing, messy kisses and sweaty bodies.

That night in the backseat wasn't the first time they'd slept together, but it  _is_ the only time that makes any sense for the conception. 

The first time was under the bleachers in the start of junior year. It'd started as a dare he thought Joyce would be too chicken to follow through on—to kiss him. He said it as a joke, but he should've known better than to underestimate just how dedicated, and competitive, she was. She'd raised a cocky eyebrow and grabbed his face. The kiss turned into what was their first time, and looking back he can only laugh at how  _fitting_ it seems that it was under those damn bleachers.

The second time was after junior prom, after enough spiked punch to lower their inhibitions, to allow them to act on their shared desires, but not enough to render them incapable of remembering their actions.

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Hop,” Joyce had told him with dark eyes after he tried to slow it down, after he made the mistake of telling her  _you’re drunk, Joyce_.

And maybe she did know exactly what she was doing. Hell, maybe she wasn’t drunk at all. 

Who knows anymore. 

But no, despite their reckless actions, neither of those would make sense. Joyce would've been pregnant senior year if he'd knocked her up either time, and she wasn’t. 

So, Karen's graduation party is where it happened. They hadn't used anything and he curses inwardly, his head slamming against the couch cushion. They were too preoccupied with anything and everything else in that moment. 

Hopper lets out a low groan, and then, despite himself, laughs. There's nothing he can do about it now, so grumbling over not using a condom seventeen years ago won't do him any good.

Doesn't mean he won't sulk, though.

And he thinks he has every right to sulk, thank you very much. He's never been this angry at Joyce, not ever, not even when she'd asked him to one of the dances sophomore year and then never showed. She never did tell him why, only that something had come up and she was sorry, but he felt like an idiot standing outside the school (because she insisted he not pick her up; it wasn't a date), dressed in a monkey suit with a stupid bouquet of flowers he'd picked up on a whim.

But now... now he's angry.

Seventeen years. She's known that he has another child, their child, for  _seventeen years_  and did nothing. Didn't tell him, not so much as a hint. He hates riddles but he would've preferred some awkward clues that led him to the realization on his own over... well, this.

Finishing off the soda in his hand, the second to last can he finds in the back of the fridge—he  _really_ needs to do some grocery shopping—he slumps down a bit more and leans his head back, eyes facing the ceiling.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself.

Hopper forces his eyes closed and tries to take a few calming breaths, but he feels nothing even resembling calm. Not even a semblance of calm anywhere in his body.

He's on edge, his heart racing and his mind whirling with thought after thought, each more confusing than the last.

He wants to know why. He wants to know if she ever planned on telling him, though he's certain he already knows the answer. On her deathbed, maybe, but before that seems doubtful. 

He wants to know what the fuck he's supposed to do now.

It's not everyday you wake up with a teenager. With El it was different; it was a slow burn and months of searching for her out in those damn woods. He knew all along that he had the cabin, that if he could just get her to come out that he'd take her here to keep her safe.

He  _knew_ that; it was his decision from the start, and he had time to come to it.

This? No, this is nothing at all like El. This is like being doused in ice water when you least expect it. You stand there, frozen, eyes screwed so tightly you think they might push back into your skull. They don't, but you wish maybe they would. You’re turned to stone, not knowing what to do. You could move, but you're in such shock that your body shuts down a little and refuses to function at all.

Except he can move. He has function enough to pull himself to his feet, stumble into the kitchen, and grab the final soda.

Jonathan.

Hopper wonders if she gave any thought to what he'd have wanted to name the baby. He doesn't dislike the name, and he doesn't actually have any better ones in mind, but he's curious. He imagines a young Joyce lying in a hospital bed, sweat peppering her skin and her hair, cradling a tiny bundle of blue in her arms.

He groans, digs the heel of his hand into his eyes. He regrets the thought as soon as it pops into his mind, but then it won't go away. Joyce, exactly as he remembers her all those years ago, but with a baby clutched tightly against her chest. His baby, _their_ baby.

_Fuck_.

Swallowing half of the can in two quick gulps, he heaves out a sigh. The soda isn’t doing a damn thing to help, but he still doesn’t want to go to the damn store. There are people in the store and he doesn’t want to deal with people. 

Instead, he goes for the next best thing. Unscrewing the cap from the bottle of pills on the coffee table, he pops two or three into his mouth and swallows. 

He lost his little girl, his precious Sara, and he was sure he'd never have another kid. It's too painful, and if he's the reason she got sick in the first place, then he wouldn't dare risk that with another child. But he does have another; he's had another kid right under his nose this entire time.

One that isn't sick.

He doesn't allow himself to think about what that means about his role in Sara's death. Jonathan isn't sick, Jonathan is his. Sara got sick, Sara's also his. One healthy, one sick. The room begins to spin and he shakes his head, shakes away every thought about Sara. Now's not the time and unless he wants to drown himself in that entire bottle of pills, just as he did after her death, he can't even think about the correlation right now.

He missed out on all of the important years with Jonathan, and hell, he's not even sure if he'll be there for any of the rest. Not in any capacity that's more than it is right now. He doesn't know what the kid wants, and he sure as hell doesn't know what he wants either.

Coughing a little, he sits up straighter, peels his eyes open.

He blames Joyce for hiding this from him, for keeping such a huge fucking secret from him for so long, but as he wallows in his self-pity and stupid soda and pills, he tries desperately to imagine what it would have been like if she _had_ told him.

He'd have been freaked out. He was just eighteen, she was seventeen, and he would've been in a foreign country when she found out. If she had told him when he returned, showed up on his doorstep with a baby, he might've passed out.

Hopper would like to think he'd have handled it well from the start, but he knows what he was like. He knows his mouth, and he’s not proud of the quip about  _how do we even know it's mine_  he no doubt would’ve made.Joyce would've gotten upset and hated him and he would've started off by fucking it all up.

That's not a reason to not tell him, though, and he's positive he would've come around. Once the shock wore off, he would've been there. Sure, they were both young as hell, and sure, he didn't plan on having a kid while still in his teens, but they would've made it work.

Joyce was his best friend and he wouldn't have turned her, or their kid, away. He's half the reason she even got pregnant, so there's no way he would have made her deal with it alone. He wouldn't have been the best father ever, not back then, but he would've tried.

Downing the last of the can, he decides that's what bothers him the most.

The lying and betrayal aside, he's pissed that she didn't feel it important enough to tell him, to  _let_ him be a father. Because he wouldn't have been good enough? Because Lonnie was a better choice? Jonathan grew up watching that rat bastard abuse his mother, punch her and toss her around like trash. The man he believed to be his father was shit to him and Will, too, if all the reports from before he came to Hawkins are true.

He’s inclined to believe them over the half-assed write-ups that document nothing but Joyce trying to cover for that jackass. 

His fists ball at his sides. That boy could've grown up in a house with two parents who, while dysfunctional and a little out-of-whack at times, would've been a hell of a lot better and not at all abusive.

Shaking his head, he forces it all away. He can't do this anymore, can't imagine all of these what-ifs in his mind when it means fuck all. Joyce still lied, Jonathan's still his almost-adult son, and he still missed seventeen years of his life.

With a grunt he stands, tosses the can into the trash where it clinks off of the rest of the pile, and moves into his bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed, he shoves his face into the pillow with a silent prayer that he falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, a whole chapter in Hopper's POV. Hopefully it's all right - I'm used to Joyce now, but hey, it was necessary.
> 
> Insert declaration of endless gratitude here x


	15. Chapter 15

An agonizing two weeks go by before she has any kind of contact with Hopper. 

Earlier in the week, she asked Jonathan if he'd seen him around town. She didn’t expect her son to have searched him out or anything; she knows he’s not in any rush to sit face to face, but Hawkins is small and it’s not out of the ordinary for the boys to see him milling about. She got a negative, which struck her as odd but she merely offered a small smile and a nod in return.

After zero sightings and radio silence, he comes into the store near the end of her shift. 

Joyce almost doesn't notice him. She's so preoccupied by the stress of the customers today, who don't seem to understand that she isn't  _personally_ responsible for there being a lack of a specific item, she doesn't bat an eye when the door opens and the bell chimes.

It's only when there's a rather large shadow hovering over her that her brows furrow, head lifting to find out what’s going on. Eyes wide, she looks into the face of a very stoic looking Hopper.

"Hi," she says, though it comes out something of a question.

"Hi." 

He doesn't give much away, nothing at all, and she wishes he’d just  _say_ something. Anything. There’s plenty she could say, but she doesn’t feel it’s her place yet; he has to come to her on his own time. 

Which, she supposes he’s doing right now. Right?

"Can we talk?"

Looking around, she surveys the few customers before focusing back on him. "I can't leave the floor," she tells him. She can't just go into the back and leave the register unattended, and he knows that. "I get off in an hour?"

Hopper nods, the movement a little disjointed. "Okay."

"Okay,” she echoes, head nodding slowly, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, she takes a breath. “Where do you want to meet, Hop?"

The look on his face tells her he hadn't thought that far ahead, didn't think much further than showing up at the store at all, and she’d laugh if she didn’t think it’d only make things worse.

"The boys will be home, which means El will be at the cabin,” she starts when he continues to say nothing at all, pausing for his small nod of confirmation, “so why don't we go to your trailer." 

"Yeah," he decides, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, that works."

"Okay."

She gets one more curt nod before he turns and walks right back out the door, leaving her stunned and more than a little confused. At least he  _came_ , she supposes. 

It's been a rough two weeks, but she’s had seventeen years to digest this information. Two weeks isn’t all that long when she thinks about it like that.

Joyce doesn't even realize there's a line of three customers until one of them clears their throat. Mumbling an apology and plastering on a practiced smile, she grabs their items and starts to ring them up.

* * *

Her knocks go unanswered long enough for her to wonder if he ever even wanted to meet up at all, if this wasn’t just one giant ruse so he could blow her off and make her feel like an idiot. 

She can’t say it’d be undeserved, but it doesn’t seem like Hopper’s style. 

Just as she's about to give in and turn back to her car, the door swings open.

"Sorry."

Hopper doesn't give an explanation and she doesn’t expect one, but he steps aside enough to allow her in. He closes the door behind them and then moves into the small kitchen. He grabs two beers from the fridge, extending one towards her once he returns.

"Oh, I'm—"

"We'll need them."

Shrugging a little, Joyce sighs and grabs the bottle. He’s likely right, anyway, and she has no doubt this will be awkward, uncomfortable, and probably emotional for the both of them. 

One beer will be the least of what she needs.

"Thanks," she murmurs. She doesn’t open it right away, just lets it rest against her stomach as she follows his lead into the living room.

He takes a seat in the chair, and so she situates herself on the couch across from him. Close but not too close. She’s giving him space. 

Hopper cracks his open, silently passing the bottle opener to her when he’s done. They each take a long swig, neither saying a word. The tension is palpable; Joyce chances a glance at him and watches as he pointedly avoids looking at her. 

For a while they just take turns looking up at each other when the other isn't looking, pretending not to pay attention when they are.

Ridiculous; they aren’t teenagers.

"You wanted to talk," she finally says, breaking the silence. "I think we should."

Hopper downs the last of his beer, rather quickly she thinks, and finally looks over at her. The dullness in his eyes catches her off guard, sends a shiver down her spine. It's just so unlike him. 

She hates that she's responsible.

"I want to know everything."

"Okay," she starts, drawing out the word. "Okay, and I'll tell you everything I can."

Hopper takes a breath. "It was graduation."

"Yeah."

"Karen's party."

"Yeah."

"Okay, so... I don't know," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "Explain to me what happened after."

"You left, Hopper. That's what happened. You went to Vietnam and I was still in Hawkins." Wringing her hands in her lap, she cracks her fingers. “I know that’s not... you didn’t choose... but you were already gone a few weeks when I found out I was pregnant."

His face remains unchanged, but he does flick his eyes in her direction. "You could've written."

Joyce scoffs. "And said what? ‘Hi, Hopper, I know you're fighting in the war and everything but I just thought I should let you know I'm pregnant and it's yours’."

"Yes, exactly that!"

"I was  _scared_ , Hop," she says, her voice rising. "I was still a  _child_ and I had no idea what I was going to do! You were thousands of miles away, and I didn't know—" She trails off, a sudden lump forming in her throat. "I didn't know if you would come back, and it was a lot to process."

He scoffs. “ _Scared_ ,” he repeats, the word like poison on his tongue. “You were scared, and I was what? Having a party?”

“That’s not fair.”

“And neither is you withholding the fact that I had a  _kid_.”

They don’t say anything for a few minutes, a heavy silence weighing them down. Joyce is pissed he’d even insinuate she thought he wasn’t scared in Vietnam, that she'd even think the two were comparable, and he’s pissed she’s using fear as an excuse. 

He groans then, closes his eyes. "Okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... I  _understand_ being scared,” he says finally. “I do. But how do you get from being terrified and not knowing what to do to  _Lonnie_ being his father?"

Hopper spits Lonnie's name, disdain dripping from his tone.

"We got back together a few days after the party. I didn't—I was already pregnant, Hop, I couldn't be pregnant  _and_ alone. The thought of being crucified in town was too much, and so... Lonnie and I had slept together after you left, and I just—I told him it was his."

"He doesn't know."

It's not a question. They both know that if Lonnie did know, hell would’ve been raised a long time ago. She’d have more than bruises to show for it.

She answers anyway.

"No."

"What the  _hell_ , Joyce," he grinds out. Standing from his chair, he begins to pace in the small area. "You know, I really hate that I get why you lied. Initially. I can't fault teenage Joyce for trying to protect herself and her son. I can't."

She takes a small breath, tries to regulate her heartbeat.

"What I  _don't_ get is keeping that from me after I got back," he continues, huffing. "Was I such a fuck up that you couldn't imagine me being a father to your kid? So fucked up that  _Lonnie_ felt like the better choice?"

Her eyes widen and she nearly jumps from the couch, stands toe-to-toe with him. "What?  _No_ ," she says, staring up at his back with fire in her eyes. She tries to put a hand on his bicep but he jerks it off. "That's never been it."

"Then why?" he asks. The quick way he turns and stares her down takes her breath away. "Why not tell me? You've had seventeen years, Joyce.  _Seventeen years_! I ran into you two in the fucking department store, brought Jonathan back to you when he ran off, and that whole time I was returning my  _son_."

Indignation boils beneath her skin.

"When should I have told you, Jim? When you came back after Vietnam, boasting about some big position in the city waiting for you? When you were off in New York for most of those seventeen years? You weren't  _here_ , Hopper! You had a wife and a daughter—should I have told you then?" Joyce pauses for a moment, tries to reel in her emotions. 

A part of her knows she’s being difficult, that sure, maybe she could’ve told him any of those times. But they never seemed right; there was always something else going on, something she’d be effectively shattering with the truth. 

"How about when you came back for two months and your mother died? When you were dealing with her funeral and putting her things in order? Or maybe I should've told you when you were grieving your  _daughter_ , just to add onto the pain."

The mirthless laugh that emits from his throat is stone cold.

"You are incredible. You could've told me at  _any_ time, Joyce, but you didn't. I wasn’t here? I  _would_ have been if you  _told_ me,” he yells, his voice booming. He starts pacing again and it’s making her anxious, her eyes following the heavy footfalls he makes. “You know what would have saved you from having to decide whether or not to tell me in times of grief? One simple solution. If you had just told me after I came back."

The air crackles between them, so much pent up emotion floating in the stuffy space of the trailer.

_Simple_. There’s that goddamn word again.

She wants to scream.

Joyce throws her hands up, wills him to understand. "You were  _leaving_ ," she says, her voice desperate. "All you ever wanted was to get out of Hawkins and be a cop in a big city, and you were  _getting_ that! You were off to fucking Manhattan. I couldn't be the one to ruin that for you."

"Ruined it?" His voice is loud, angry. "That's what you think? That Jonathan ruined your life?"

Her eyes darken. "Of course not, and you know damn well I'd never think that."

"Then who gave you the right to decide whether he'd ruin mine?"

"You were destined for bigger things, Hopper. I wasn't going to be the reason you gave that all up."

A raspy sound claws its way from the back of his throat, the noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. He scrubs a hand down his face. "You could've come with me. Both of you. I did well in the city; I could've taken care of you both, but you never gave me that chance."

Joyce shakes her head. "You say that now, but you would've grown to resent me. Resent Jonathan. And I didn't want that."

"Do you think I resented Sara?" he asks, and she takes a step back. Her shoulders drop. "No, I  _didn't_. Because even though he wasn't planned I wouldn't have turned away my kid. Or you."

“Oh, please,” she says. A watery chuckle scrapes out, her throat raw. “I believe that you believe what you’re saying, Hopper, but we were  _kids_. I knew teenage Hopper, too, you know, and can you honestly tell me that you would’ve just sat there with open arms and given up your dream?” 

He remains silent, staring at a spot just beyond her left shoulder, and she watches as a storm brews behind those eyes of his. 

“No.”

His entire demeanor changes with that one word. She isn’t surprised to hear it and she’s not mad either. She knew. It might’ve taken him a while to realize it, too, but she knew.

“But I would have tried my best after the shock wore off, Joyce,” he says. “And if you don’t think that...” He lets out a hollow laugh. “What does that say about me?”

"It wasn’t... I'm sorry, Hop." Tears prick at the backs of her eyes and she collapses back onto the couch, lets her head fall into her palms. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't erase the last seventeen years."

Nodding, she chews on her bottom lip. "I know."

Hopper takes a deep breath, paces for a few more moments before he finally stops. He looks down at her before slowly settling himself back into the chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. 

She can tell he’s nearly back at eye level but she can't look at him.

"Joyce."

The responding hum comes out garbled, caught in the lump in her throat.

"Look at me." 

Reluctantly, she lifts her eyes to him. She owes him this much. Wiping beneath her eyes with the back of her hand, she tries to blink away any fresh tears.

"I wanted to tell you," she whispers, so quietly she's almost not sure she's even said anything at all. It’s only small twitch in his brow that tells her she has. Sniffling, she doesn't look away. "I wanted to tell you so many times."

He softens more, and she doesn't know if it's because the fight has left his body the same way it's left hers, or if it's simply resignation.

She doesn’t know which one she hopes for.

"So why didn't you?" Even his voice is quiet, not the same booming anger he had before. “I know you were scared, Joyce, but... truthfully, just—why?”

"I don't know." At her shrug, she gives an almost hysterical laugh. "It's a shitty excuse, Hop, I know, but the more time that passed, the harder it became to even think about letting the truth out. And I knew that the longer I lied the worse it would get, but that knowledge mixed with how much time had already gone by and how it never seemed _right_ , I just... I couldn't make myself tell you. Or Jonathan."

"I'm still mad," he says by way of reply. She looks up at him, lashes wet. "I'm still  _really_ mad, Joyce, and I'm—I don't know how to process the last fucking two weeks, but I don't want to fight."

She nods. "I don't want to fight either."

"I'm gonna need... I don't know, some time. Some more time to figure it out."

She nods again. "Okay."

"What am I supposed to do now?" he asks, shrugging before leaning back into the cushion. "I don't know shit about raising a teenager."

Joyce laughs a little at that. "You're kind of already raising one," she reminds him. El may only be thirteen, but she’s still a teenager. And a teenage girl at that, something she's never had to deal with. "Besides, Jonathan doesn't need raising. He's almost eighteen, almost off to college."

His jaw tightens and she her chest constricts. She knows what he’s thinking about and she almost wishes she hadn’t said anything at all.

"So where does that leave us? Does the kid even like me?" He waves a hand around. "Is he freaked out?"

"He likes you, Hop. The second you believed me, the second you helped us bring back Will, he liked you," she assures him. This time when she reaches out, covers his hand with her own, he doesn't pull away. "Yeah he was freaked out, he's still figuring it out, too, but... he doesn’t seem upset about it. He’s more upset about the lie than..."

Her voice trails off; he can fill in the blanks.

"I don't know what he wants," she tells him honestly. "I don't know how either of you want to play this, but I think that's something the two of you should talk about. I've done enough."

"I'd say," he mutters under his breath, and her fingers twitch on top of his.

She deserves that; she knows she does. 

What she doesn’t deserve is the small flicker of apology in his eyes when they meet hers.

"You can come by whenever you have time? Talk to him?"

Hopper moans a little, squeezes his eyes shut. This is so out of his realm, out of his comfort zone, and she knows that. Sure, he's interacted with Jonathan before, but that was as the Chief, as Joyce's friend, as someone who helped their family. Not as one of his parents. 

"Yeah," he sighs eventually. "Yeah, I guess. What do I say to him?"

"You just talk to him. It'll be weird, Hop, there's no getting around that. But just talk. Tell him the truth, whatever that may be."

It's silent for a while, the two of them stewing in the aftermath of this conversation. It's drained her, body as tired as her mind, and she wants nothing more than to go home and take a hot bath. In reality, she'll probably take a short, lukewarm shower and have to immediately start on dinner, but she'll take it. 

Anything to ease the tension in her bones.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, for what feels like the millionth time, after few moments. Hopper turns to face her. "I really am. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know." His fingers squeeze hers. "I won't say it's okay, because it's not, but I want us to be okay."

Joyce swallows, worries a nail between her teeth. "Me too. I don't want you to hate me forever."

"I may not like you very much right now, but I don't hate you. Kinda wish I  _could_ , but I... never."

She gives a watery laugh, and a small weight lifts from her shoulders. "I'll take what I can get."

There's a brief pause, and then, "we have a kid."

Joyce smiles in spite of herself. "Yeah."

"We have a kid, Joyce.  _Us_."

"Yeah, Hop. We have a kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a doozy, huh? Making progress, folks! 
> 
> Thank you all xx


	16. Chapter 16

Joyce, in a move that’s nearly unprecedented for her, leaves work early. She tells Donald she has some family issues to deal with, which is a half-truth so she doesn’t feel bad about the half-lie, and leaves to pick Will up from school.

When he’s called into the office and sees his mother standing by the front desk, his eyes widen. He looks around the room, gaze darting subtly from one person to the next as if to figure out what’s going on. 

He hesitates only for a second longer before making a beeline for her.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

The fear is evident on his face, reflecting back at her in those eyes.

She smiles and rubs his shoulder, shakes her head. “No, honey, nothing’s wrong,” she promises. With one last nod to the woman at the front desk, a polite farewell, she gently guides Will towards the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

He waits until they’re outside to halt their movements, to tug on her arm. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“You’re taking me out of school early,” he retorts as if that’s cause enough to be alarmed. Which, okay, it’s true; she rarely takes the boys out of school early. This is probably the second time in so many years. “You never take me out of school early.”

Joyce sighs. “Let’s talk in the car, okay?”

Will looks like he’s about to object but, after a moment of thought, he nods. There’s not much else he can do, really, and he follows his mother to the tiny green pinto. She opens the door for him, palm brushing his back as she ushers him inside. Once he’s buckled and settled in, she rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat.

Quiet as he may be, she can still feel the heat of his gaze on her from the second she’s beside him in the car. He’s still looking at her when she finally turns towards him. 

The expression on his face breaks a laugh from her throat, a real laugh, because he just looks so  _grave_. It’s as if the entire world must have ended because she’s taken him out of school a few hours early.

“Will, sweetie,  _nothing’s wrong_ ,” she assures him again, a smile on her face.

“So you’re not letting me out early to tell me something’s happened to Jonathan?”

“Of course not; Jonathan’s fine. He’s still in school.”

“And you’re not here to tell me you’re sick or… or dying, or—” 

Joyce shakes her head immediately. “I’m not sick, and I’m certainly not dying.”

His expression falters a little, but his mouth twists uneasily to the side. “Are you sure, Mom? Because… if you’re sick, or something, you can tell me, and we’ll—”

“Hey, stop,” she cuts him off, grabbing his small hand in hers. 

She swears there are traces of tears welling up in his eyes and she’s about to climb over the center console and wrap him in her arms. This poor kid has been through so much he can’t even accept the fact that nothing earth-shattering has happened. 

“Baby, I’m fine. I promise, okay?” Tipping his chin in her direction, she coaxes him to look at her. “I’m no less healthy than I was yesterday or the day before. Nothing to worry about.”

Sure, she’s still a little frazzled. She’s absolutely not looking forward to the conversation she has to have with Will or the inevitable union of Hopper and Jonathan with their new knowledge of their relation, but physically… she’s fine. 

The last thing she needs is to add something else for her boy to stress about.

“Okay…”

Joyce puts the car in drive and takes off, the two of them making their way towards Benny’s diner instead of home. She snorts at the shock on Will’s face when it occurs to him that they’re going in the opposite direction, but it soon gives way to a grin when he realizes they’re actually going out for food.

Like getting out of school early, eating out is not something they do often. They don’t have the money to treat themselves to restaurants and fast food places more than on occasion, but she’d classify this as an occasion that deserves a diner meal.

After Benny’s death, a few of his friends, other classmates that have stayed around Hawkins and sometimes worked at the diner in their teen years, decided to continue working there with the blessing of Benny’s living family. She doesn’t know who’s dealing with the business side of things—that was Benny’s forte—but that it’s still open and serving his signature burgers is heartwarming. It’s what his legacy deserves.

“We’re going to Benny’s?”

Joyce nods. “We are.”

“Okay, Mom,  _seriously_ , you can just tell me if you’re sick or something…”

Huffing, she gives a good-natured roll of her eyes and glances over. “What, a mother can’t treat her son to a nice spur of the moment lunch anymore?”

Will ignores the rhetorical question. “We’re going to have a weird talk, aren’t we?”

“You could say that,” she breathes, pulling into the parking lot. Best to just be honest; she has a lot of time to make up for in that arena. "You know how there was something I had to talk to Jonathan about? That I said would affect you, but I couldn’t talk about it yet?“

Will nods. "Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve talked to Jonathan already, and I thought it would be nice to have an afternoon just the two of us. So I could tell you, too, and you can ask any questions that you have about it.”

“Okay.”

Will runs ahead of her and practically swings the door back into the wall, but he doesn’t go any farther. He stands there and waits for her to catch up, holding the door open for her. After greeting her former classmates with a polite smile, she and Will take a seat at one of the tables and get their orders ready. 

A burger and fries are put in for the two of them and Joyce even nudges Will’s knees under the table, encourages him to choose a milkshake instead of the water he’s accustomed to ordering because it’s free.

She may be going over the top, just a little, but she doesn’t want Will to have to hear this in their kitchen over leftovers. Maybe it’s a little strategic; in the house, he can get up and lock himself in his room if he wants to. Here, he can’t exactly run away.

Truthfully, she doesn’t think that’ll be anything close to his reaction. He’s more subdued than Jonathan; more pensive, sensitive. More quiet. But she still wants to have some kind of insurance policy, something that allows her confidence that he won’t take off.

When their food comes, she spends a few minutes chatting normally, asking him about the day he’s had so far and what’s going on with the party. Will launches into a whole explanation of this new game they’ve played, using animated gestures and words she doesn’t understand. She has no idea what he’s talking about but she smiles along anyway, genuinely interested despite her limited knowledge. The light in his eyes is enough to have her hanging onto every word, desperately trying to get some of it.

Halfway through the meal when the conversation experiences a lull, Joyce wipes at her mouth and chews on her nail.

“You can tell me, Mom.” When she looks up, Will’s regarding her with those soft eyes of his. So much like hers. “I’m not a kid anymore. I can handle it.”

Joyce laughs, nods. “You’re right, you’re not a little kid anymore.”

His chest puffs out with the confirmation. Proud.

“Okay,” she exhales, wringing her hands in front of her to get the feeling back. She’s a little numb, a lot nervous. “When I was in high school, I was friends with Hopper. You know Hopper.”

_Smooth_ , Joyce. Of course he knows Hopper.

“Yeah, Mom,” Will laughs, “I know Hopper.”

“Good, good.” She could smack herself.  _Be normal_ , she chastises herself, but this is so far from normal. “Well… after graduation something happened between the two of us, and I got pregnant.”

Quick, like a band-aid. 

Will’s eyes widen. “You… have a kid with Hopper?” Something lights on his face, and his mouth opens. “Wait, is that what this is? Do I have another brother or sister? Where are they?” When she’s silent, mouth flapping because she doesn’t know what to say, he continues in a whisper, “Are they dead?”

“No,” she says immediately, shaking her head. “No, they’re… they’re not dead. But Hopper and I…  _do_ have a child, yeah.”

“Okay.” His forehead creases as he plucks a fry from his plate and tosses it into his mouth. “So, where are they? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a boy,” Joyce manages, taking a second to breathe through her nose and exhale through her mouth. 

Giving a slow nod, Will takes it in. “I have another brother,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question, and she can tell he’s trying to wrap his head around the information. To figure it out. 

She wishes it was as easy as just saying he has another brother. 

“Well,” she starts, her heart kicking into high gear. Unsure of how to continue, she just blurts out, “It’s Jonathan.”

But that doesn’t work because now Will’s looking at her again, all concerned eyes and innocent face and she wants to  _scream_.

“What’s Jonathan? You said nothing was wrong with him.”

She shakes her head, eyes falling shut. She wonders if it’d be possible to be any more frustrated with herself, but she doubts it. This was supposed to be the  _easy_ conversation, and the thought alone now makes her want to burst into hysterics. She’s already told Jonathan that his father’s not the man he thought, she’s already had a blowout with Hopper over the same piece of news, so telling Will should be a walk in a park. 

For some reason it’s  _not_ , not at all, and maybe it was naive of her to think otherwise. 

Thinking about it now, she’s almost positive it’s because of how he looks at her. He may be growing up, a teenager now who should start resenting her for her hovering and excessive mothering, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He still looks at her with such adoration, such sweet, kid-like love, and she doesn’t want it tainted. 

She doesn’t want him to look at her differently. 

“Nothing’s wrong. He's—it’s him, Will. Jonathan is my child with Hopper.”

Will’s silent for a moment, his face painfully blank. For such a sensitive kid he has one hell of a poker face when he wants to, but usually she can read his tells. She can generally tell when something’s off, but right now she can’t read anything. He looks down at the table, blinking, his mouth twisted a little to the side while he thinks.

The lack of response is driving her just a little insane, but finally,  _finally_ , after what seems like an hour but is likely five minutes, he breaks the silence.

“Hopper is Jonathan’s dad.”

Joyce nods. “Yes, he is.”

“Is Hopper… my dad?” Will asks, his voice quiet and oh, bless him, filled with a little hope. 

A part of her wishes she could say yes. He already idolizes the man—she knows it makes Hopper uncomfortable, but she finds it sweet—and looks up to him more than he’s ever really been able to look up to Lonnie. 

She wishes she could tell him that his father isn’t really a deadbeat, a no-show who didn’t even care enough to  _call_ when they thought their boy was dead.

“No, sweetie,” Joyce says softly. “Your dad is still your dad.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod. “Okay.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, just continues to pick at the last of his burger, she reaches over and wraps his free hand in hers.

“Do you have any questions?”

Will shrugs. “I don’t know, I mean… it’s kind of weird,” he admits, looking anywhere but at her. “Did you just find out or something? How come we never knew before?”

It’s a valid question, but it still tears at her.  _No. Because I can be a coward sometimes._

“Because I didn’t tell them. I lied for reasons that seemed to make sense at the time, and I never told Hopper about Jonathan, so I never told Jonathan about Hopper.”

“How come?”

“It’s complicated, baby,” she says, offering a small smile. “I’ll explain it sometime, but right now I just need you to know that I made a mistake back then and I’m trying to fix it, okay?”

Her boy nods, accepts her answer even though she can tell he wants more details, wants to know why she chose to withhold the information. She told Jonathan, and she told Hopper, but she doesn’t feel Will needs to know  _all_ of it right now. 

As long as he has the gist of what’s happened and what’s going on, it’s okay for now. That’s all he really needs. 

“So, is the Chief moving in with us?”

Joyce laughs. “No, no. Nothing like that is going to happen right now,” she promises, squeezing his fingers. “The only thing that’s changing is Jonathan and Hopper’s relationship, maybe. They’ll have to decide how they want to move forward.”

“But you said it’d affect me,” he points out, shoving another one of the fries into his mouth.

“I—I wasn’t sure how Hopper would take the news, and I was worried that he might decide he didn’t want to talk to me,” she tells him honestly. “If that happened, I was concerned that might affect your friendship with El, but we’ve talked it over and he's—well, he’s upset, but it won’t reach that level. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh,” Will says. “I’m glad that’s not happening. I like El, and it’d really suck to have to stop talking.”

“I’m glad too, baby.” She takes a moment to pick at a few of her own fries, left neglected for most of the conversation. Her appetite seems to be slowly returning now that everything appears to be going all right with Will. “I know this is a lot to take in, and it’s going to be really weird for a while, but I want you to know you can come to me with anything you feel about it. Deal?”

Nodding, he takes a breath. “Yeah, deal.” 

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now, what do you say we finish our food and head home? Maybe we can put in a movie.”

It's a quick change of topic, but she can tell he has nothing else to say right now. Nothing he's willing to part with, anyway, and she doesn't want to sit through the remainder of their meal in an awkward, tense cloud. He'll come to her if and when he has anything else to ask, and so right now her main concern is putting that vibrant smile she loves so much back on his face.

Her son perks up, the smile a little smaller but _there_ as he gives an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah! Can we watch ET?”

She laughs. Should’ve known. Oddly enough, ever since he saw it for the first time a few months ago and then asked her to record it onto a VHS tape for him, he’s been practically begging her or Jonathan to watch it with him again. She hasn't had the energy or time lately and she may not be bursting with energy now, either, but this is something she can do.

“Sure, ET it is,” she agrees, beaming at the excitement on his face.

The knots in her chest continue to loosen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are far too kind. I can't even tell you how much I appreciate you all xx 
> 
> A little update: in addition to being busy every day next week, I won't actually be home at all, which also means I won't be able to update as I usually would on Wednesday. As it stands, the next chapter will be up on May 2nd! Sorry for the slight hitch in schedule, but I hope it'll be worth the wait :)


	17. Chapter 17

They take things slow.

She suggests that Hopper come over for dinner a week and a half after their conversation in his cabin. The tension is palpable through the phone.

"Do you think that's such a great idea?" he asks, and she just barely suppresses a sigh.

No, she has no idea if it's a good idea, but she  _does_ know that they can't keep dancing around this until someone finally caves. Jonathan's still acting a little weird around her; she can tell he's trying his best to seem normal, to act like everything's fine and nothing's different, but she doesn't want that. She doesn't want him walking on egg-shells when this is her fault. If he's still feeling torn or upset or otherwise, then she wants him to say so.

But she thinks it'll be good in the end, even if it has to be bad first.

Talking, she's learning, actually expressing some feelings with the person at the hart of those emotions, can work wonders.

"I do," she says with a false sense of confidence she hopes he can't detect. "You two have to talk, Hop, but maybe... maybe this is a good first step."

"First step?"

"Yeah, you know, you come over for dinner. Wade in the waters first, dip a toe in. Talk to Jonathan; not about anything serious, just talk, and then next time... it'll be the two of you and you can talk about all of this." She hears his breathing on the other line, and she waits him out for a few moments. When he says nothing, she continues. "It'll be easier if you at least see him before your one-on-one, Hop."

He sighs. "Yeah. Okay, you're right."

"Great," she says, her voice displaying more positivity than she feels. "Bring El, obviously. She can hang out with Will. He's... I feel horrible that he's in the middle of this."

"How is he doing?" Hopper asks, and a small smile curls at her mouth.

"He's okay, I think. It's weird for him too, but I know he doesn't want to say anything."

She doesn’t mention anything about him asking if Hopper’s his father too, about the tiny sliver of hope that he allowed to shine through his eyes. The way they dulled when she had to tell him that no, he’s still stuck with Lonnie, still pulls at her. There was the tiniest hint of sadness there, but mostly acceptance, and it's too much to think about. Hopper doesn’t need to know.

Humming into her ear, he offers noises of agreement. "He's a tough kid."

Joyce laughs. "Yeah, he is. My not-so-little boy."

Conversation steers from their mixed up family troubles and into lighter territory. She can tell he still hasn't completely forgiven her, and she doesn't expect him to any time soon, but he's trying. To forgive, to move on, to take things as they come.

She's grateful for it. For him, even if she has a shitty way of showing it sometimes.

When they hang up with a promise to see each other tonight at dinner, she puts the phone back on the hook and leans against the wall. Eyes falling closed, she exhales a few times, trying to calm the racing of her heart.

It's a no pressure dinner, and that's exactly what she tells Jonathan when he balks at the notion of Hopper joining them so soon.

"He's not coming over to talk about that, sweetie," she assures him, placing a hand on his arm. "It's just... a dinner, okay? You two do need to talk, Jonathan, and it'll probably be a lot worse if that talk is the first time you both see each other after all of this."

Jonathan's face remains closed off, mouth pulled into a thin line. He doesn't look directly at her for a few minutes, instead stares at the scuff marks on his sneakers—sneakers he really should throw away, she realizes.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice quiet.

"Okay?"

Shrugging, he stares down for a few more seconds before lifting his gaze to hers. "Yeah I guess, Mom. We can't exactly tell him not to come."

"If you're not ready then that's exactly what we can do," she tells him, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I should've talked to you before..."

But now he's shaking his head, running his free hand through his hair. "No, no, it's—it's fine. Got to get it over with sometime, right?"

"Jonathan..."

He offers a small smile. "Really, it's okay, Mom. It'll be fine."

And then he's gently shaking her hand from his arm, squeezing it softly before he makes his way towards the front door. Something about going to see Nancy, she hears as his back faces her, and then he's gone and she hears the engine of his car.

 _It'll be fine_.

She sure hopes so.

* * *

Jonathan helps her make dinner, a simple mashed potatoes and chicken, and they finish only a few minutes before there's a knock at the door. She almost expected him to stay at the Wheeler’s and just not come home, but she should’ve known better. He wouldn’t do that. 

Will sprints over because, despite the nervous energy in the house, he's excited to see El. He hasn't seen the girl since this whole thing came to light a few weeks ago; she feels horrible about that, knows it's her fault things changed so suddenly, but she's thrilled they're back.

"Hang their coats by the door, sweetie," she calls from the kitchen.

It's unnecessary; it's not the first time they've been over, far from it. But she's trying to keep her body from shaking any more noticeably than it already is, and so normalcy... it's what she needs. Her nail finds itself wedged between her teeth, the old habit dying hard, and the warmth of Jonathan's palm on her arm nearly sends her jumping out of her skin.

He just looks at her. "Relax," he says, and oh, if only.

Joyce gives him a tight smile.

"Seriously, Mom, shouldn't I be the one freaking out?" he asks. Her eyes fly to his and find that he's joking, trying to lighten the mood. "It'll be okay. Weird as hell, but okay."

Removing her finger from her mouth, she lets her hand slide down his arm until she's squeezing his.

"Thank you, baby."

Joyce really  _should_ be the one comforting Jonathan, and yet here he is, reassuring her instead. She doesn’t deserve him, but she’s sure as hell glad she has him.

* * *

Dinner goes... well,  _okay_.

As predicted, it's weird. It's really weird, especially for El, who can sense that something's different but has no idea of what it is. Joyce knows Hopper hasn't told her; he mentioned it over the phone, that she doesn’t know, just so they'd all know enough not to say anything.

He'll tell her once they decide how things are going to play out, how much things are going to change.

It makes sense, she thinks. El still doesn't quite understand much in the way of family logistics and emotions and why this would be a big deal. Not completely, anyway. Telling her after the fact, when there will be actual details (aside from the obvious) to share, like what they're truly going to do about it, is for the best.

“How’s uh, how’s school going, Jonathan?”

Her boy’s eyes fly up at the sound of Hopper’s voice, and she can see the smallest glint of shock. She’s surprised too, mostly because she didn’t think Hopper would be the one to initiate conversation.

It’s halted and tense, but he’s  _trying,_ and that fact alone has her heart growing.

Jonathan recovers quickly. “It’s okay,” he shrugs. She thinks he’s going to stop there, like he usually does, but she’s surprised again. “They expect a lot from us still, but we’re all on our way out, so...”

Hopper laughs. “So you’re doing enough to pass,” he finishes, amusement in his voice. “I know that feeling.”

“Jonathan.”

“I’m aiming for more than passing, Mom, don’t worry,” he says. 

Joyce doesn’t see the small, barely there quirk of his lips that he gears towards Hopper, or the tiny nod of agreement he gets in return. Like a secret. 

“Besides, don’t listen to Hopper,” Joyce says, a tentative smile on her face. “He  _barely_ passed.”

His chest puffs out, mock indignation filling his face. “Hey, I passed. Got that diploma. What else do I need?”

Joyce gives a good-natured roll of her eyes. “Maybe a B thrown in there somewhere for good luck?” she teases.

“C’s get degrees, Joyce.” 

“You don’t have a degree.”

“But I have a diploma.”

Jonathan chuckles. “He’s right, you know.”

It gets a little less awkward after that, after Jonathan sides with Hopper on a mundane and simple semi-debate. There’s nothing substantial that happens, no big revelations or heart-to-hearts, but nothing bursts into flames either.

And after the past few weeks, after preparing for the worst, this is as close to smooth sailing as she could hope for. 

They stick to safe topics; school, the latest town gossip—which for once doesn’t involve herself—and the latest happenings at the police department. As soon as Hopper mentions the case of the missing garden gnomes being found miles away, tied to trees with rope, Will’s eyes widen and he makes the man explain it in great detail. He’s fascinated.

_How did the gnomes get there? Who took them? Why were they tied to trees, and why were they tied to trees so far away, instead of just in the owner’s yard? Were the gnomes returned? What happens if they disappear again?_

Joyce stifles her laughter with the back of her hand, but she can’t restrain the amusement from dancing in her eyes as she glances between the two. Will, leaning forward on the table, elbows propping up his intrigued face. Hopper, sitting back in his seat, clearing his throat every so often as he tries to come up with some kind of answer to her boy’s questions. 

It’s kind of adorable how flustered he gets with each one. She gets it, though, because Will’s always been a curious kid. She’s gone through this many times with various situations, and she knows how difficult it can be to come up with an answer that isn’t just ‘I don’t know’. 

He hides it well, but Joyce can see the way his shoulders relax when Will finally accepts his responses and asks if he and El can be excused.

“We want to play some of the game before they leave,” he tells her, excited eyes beaming over at her. “Can we, Mom? Please?” 

“Sure. You two should have time for a game or two,” she says with a smile, discreetly peering over at Hopper for confirmation. 

He notices and nods an agreement. “Go on, kid. Have fun.” 

With the kids gone, Joyce looks over to Jonathan and watches as he fidgets a little, pushes the remaining food around on his place even though she can tell he’s finished. He’s trying to figure out if he should stay or if he can also leave the table, unsure of what the best thing to do right now is, and she shoots him a soft smile.

“You can go put your plate in the sink if you’re done, sweetie,” she says. 

His head lifts, eyes finding hers. “Okay, yeah,” he breathes, sliding his chair back. She really has to find a way to stop that irritating scraping sound. Maybe little booties for the chair legs? “Are you done?”

“Yeah, but I can get the rest, it’s okay. Just take care of your plate.”

Jonathan shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says anyway, rounding the table to grab her empty plate. Stopping beside Hopper, he pauses. “Finished?”

Hopper’s eyes widen a little, but he nods and Jonathan’s plucking his dish from the table before he realizes what’s happening. “Oh, yeah—yeah. Thanks.”

There’s not much more than a murmur of acknowledgement before her son takes the three plates and deposits them into the sink. He hovers for a moment after, hands braced on the edge of the counter-top, and concern immediately claws its way through her chest. His grip is too tight and his back too rigid, but before she can get up and do something, he’s turning back around.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the next, he stands at the head of the table, looking at the wooden surface instead of at either of them. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to say something but is wholly unsure of how to get it out. 

“Jonathan?” she questions, her voice soft. 

“I uh—I’m glad you came tonight.” His eyes lift, looking now at a comically still Hopper. “It was... well, it was weird,” he says with a rough laugh, which draws an unexpected bark of laughter from Hopper and a snort from Joyce. “But I’m glad we did it.” 

Hopper clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, me too, kid.” 

And then Jonathan’s gone, disappeared to his room with one last wave and quick farewell, and Joyce slumps against the back of the chair. Hopper follows suit. 

“ _So_.”

“So,” Joyce echoes. Standing, she grabs the pack of cigarettes from the counter, plucks one out, and returns. “I think that went pretty well.”

Hopper nods. “Yeah. Could’ve gone worse.”

“I was  _expecting_ worse, so this is like sunshine and rainbows, Hop,” she laughs, extending the now lit cigarette towards him. 

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Guess you’re right.”

They pass the cigarette back and forth, each taking long drags and expelling more smoke than words. But she supposes they don’t really need words, not right now. Silence has gotten them in trouble in the past, but now it’s not so bad. 

Will and El continue to play in the living room, Jonathan’s off processing in his room, no doubt, and the two of them share a moment of rare contentment. 

Staring at Hopper’s profile out of the corner of her eyes, she can’t help but notice the striking resemblance between him and Jonathan. As he stares straight ahead, eyes focused on an unknown point in her kitchen, she wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and your patience! Next week is finals, so if the update is a day or two (at most) late, please bear with me. After that I'm officially done with my first year of grad school and will have much more time to write. 
> 
> As it stands, this story probably has one or two chapters left after this one, we shall see xx


	18. Chapter 18

"Are you sure you don't want to come?"

 _Yes_ she wants to come, but despite this, despite how every part of her body is screaming to the contrary, Joyce shakes her head. She'd love to go and watch father and son interact, hear what they have to say to each other, but it's not her place. It's her input and her sole decision-making that got them to where they are, and she knows this is something they need to do on their own. Whatever happens, whatever needs to be said, is between the two of them.

If they want her to know, one of them will fill her in later.

Even if the look on Jonathan's face expresses the same doubts she has. Even if she can tell by the look in his eyes that he  _does_ want her there, if only to serve as something of a buffer.

"No, sweetie. This is something you and Hopper have to figure out," she says, running a comforting hand along his forearm. "It'll be good for you."

Not totally convinced but still understanding, Jonathan gives a slow nod. "Yeah, okay."

"You're meeting Hopper at his cabin, right?"

That was the plan; it's not a completely neutral location, no, but it was better than going to some restaurant in town where there would be a minimum of two sets of eyes on them no matter what. This town is a fishbowl and the sight of Hopper and Jonathan together would stir the rumor mill—are they rumors if the information is true but not  _out_ yet, she wonders—and god forbid if someone overhears them.

Hopper's trailer is a little out of the way and, in his own words, _too much of a pigsty_ , and Joyce's place would be fine but Will's going to be home soon (Jonathan was let out early for this, which she deems to be fair since she took Will out early for her own one-on-one conversation with him). He wouldn't be a bother, and she’s almost positive he wouldn't even want to be a part of the conversation, but it's still best if they're alone.

Plus, El's going over the Wheeler's after school. The girl's excitement overpowered the odd suggestion, so she blissfully didn't ask Hopper what the deal was. Probably too nervous he'd change his mind if she even questioned it.

So, the cabin.

"Yeah, he said he'd be there as soon as he got off work."

Joyce looks to the clock on the wall and furrows a brow. It's only 2:30; Hopper shouldn't be off work for another few hours, at least.

"He's leaving at 3:00," her son cuts in, no doubt noticing the confused expression on her face. "Said he'd make Powell or someone take the rest of his shift."

She nearly suppresses a snort. Makes sense, and absolutely sounds like Hopper.

"Okay," she says. "I'll be here, so you just call if you need anything, okay?"

Jonathan smirks. "I know, Mom. I will."

Bottom lip pulled between her teeth, she nods again. "Okay," she exhales, her nerves on edge. It should be Jonathan freaking out about this potentially life-changing conversation he's about to have, but it's her. Then again, he’s always been better at masking it. "You'll be fine."

She's reassuring herself as much as she is Jonathan, but it works just the same.

"I know," he repeats, squeezing her shoulder. Pulling her into a quick side hug, he lets out a breath. "You'll be fine too."

That gets a laugh from her, because this is not the first time her boy's been comforting her in this situation when it should be the other way around.

"Thanks, baby," she smiles when he pulls away. "Drive safe, please."

"Always do."

And then he's leaving, disappearing onto the front porch and into his car. She stands there, watches until he peels out of the driveway and turns onto the road and she can no longer see him at all.

Her son's just left to have a heart-to-heart (or as close to one as one gets with Hopper) with his father and she's slowly losing her mind. Her heart is in her throat, nail-beds torn and ripped up from her constant biting, and her mouth suddenly feels like it's been stuffed with cotton.

There are so many potential things that could go wrong, so many ways Jonathan could get hurt or Hopper could get hurt, or even worse  _both_ of them, and if she sits here and runs through each of them in her mind she may lose it. So she closes the door and turns on her heel, forces herself to change into something other than her work uniform (this seems like the perfect time for sweatpants and a comfortable t-shirt), and settles into the couch.

Everything will be fine, nothing is going to blow up, and these are the thoughts she repeats in the back of her mind while she turns on the television.

* * *

Hopper leaves the station earlier than anticipated, all of his pent up energy bubbling over and making it impossible to concentrate on any of the word he should realistically be doing. He manages to tip his hat in Flo's direction and offer a muted farewell, mainly because he doesn't want to arouse any suspicion. It's as if every single person in this damn place can tell, can see just by looking at him that he has a secret son with Joyce Byers and he's leaving right now to go meet with him.

"See you tomorrow, Chief," Powell calls out on a laugh, to which Hopper flips him off.

Normal behavior.

He intends to go straight to the cabin but instead he pulls off on a quiet road and gets out of the car, leans against the driver's side door for a few minutes. There's a breeze and it feels good on his face, counteracts the nerves warming his skin. He shouldn't be so freaked out; he saw the kid the other day and it wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world but nothing came crashing down around them, but now it'll just be the two of them.

Maybe he can reschedule for a few months from now, when it’ll still be just as jarring and no less easy, but it won’t be this very moment. He's sure Jonathan doesn't want to do this shit any more than he does, because it's fucking weird.

 _You two need to talk_ , he can hear Joyce's voice in his head. Something about bonding and figuring out how they want to go about this new dynamic and blah blah blah. Annoying thing is, she's right.

Running a hand through his hair, hat tossed back through the open window, he groans.  _God_ , he wishes he could hate her. Really, truly hate her for putting him in this situation right now. If she'd have just said something earlier, even by a few years, this awkward introduction would be long gone and he wouldn't be sweating through his uniform.

Except he can't hate her, can't even see a situation in which maybe he'd truly hate her, and that makes him hate her a little more. By mere centimeters, really, because she's just so goddamn unhateable that he's able to ratchet up the dislike by  _this_ much. 

It’s negligible, but it makes him feel a little better so he’ll take it. Laughing to himself, he shakes his head. Ridiculous, absolutely absurd, is what this is.

A fucking  _son_.

A son who's probably waiting for him at his cabin right now since it's nearly a half hour after he said he'd be leaving. So, heaving out one last breath, Hopper forces himself back into his truck, closes the door, and heads in the direction of what's likely to be the most uncomfortable conversation of his life.

* * *

Jonathan's sitting on the porch when he pulls up, crouched on the stairs. Getting out of the truck, he tucks his hat beneath his arms and slams the door shut. If the rumbling of the tires on the uneven ground didn't alert the boy to his presence, that sure as hell did.

"Hi," Jonathan says, standing once Hopper gets closer. He hovers close to the wooden railing, half-leaning on it in a way that's meant to look nonchalant but just looks like he's ready to run for the hills.

Same, kid.

"Hey." They stare at each other for a few moments before Hopper finally takes the lead; he opens the door, walks in, and assumes Jonathan's going to follow. "Air's not working that great, but it's not too bad."

Silence.

Jonathan's still standing on the porch, and Hopper sighs. "Well, let's go," he says, making an exaggerating sweeping motion with his arm to try and get him to come inside. "This talk is going to be a lot more awkward if we have to scream it at each other from ten feet."

The kid actually laughs and a small knot loosens in his chest. Closing the door behind him, Jonathan shuffles over and sits on the couch with his arms resting on his thighs. Being doubled over like that doesn't look all that comfortable but he sat down without needing to be told, so Hopper takes it as a win.

He’s been in much more uncomfortable positions passed out on that couch anyway. Turned out fine.

"You want a drink?" he asks, grabbing a beer for himself. Jonathan blinks. "Look, I won't tell your mom if you don't. There's also water and soda, but I can’t make any promises about how long that's been in the back of the fridge."

"Yeah, sure," Jonathan says eventually, accepting the bottle. "Thanks."

Maybe this isn't the best first impression, being his father— _fuck_ , that's weird—and the Chief, but fuck it. He's having a beer and he knows the kid drinks with his friends, and he'd feel like shit forcing water on him for this while he watched him down a drink. Only one, though, because he's not letting him drive back after having had more than that. Europeans drink with dinner when they're children or something, Italians maybe, and wine's different than beer but the sentiment is the same.

Pretend it’s dinner, that they’re discussing the pasta and not their newfound familial connections, and all is well. Nothing to see here.

They spend a few minutes in silence after Hopper returns from changing into jeans and a t-shirt, each taking sips of their beers, nursing them as if something absolutely horrible will happen if they're gone and they’re forced to actually speak to each other.

"This as weird for you as it is for me?" he asks eventually, voice gruff.

Jonathan laughs, nods. "Yeah, definitely."

"Good."

"Didn't think I'd ever really be back here," he says, glancing around uneasily. Beer grasped in both hands, knuckles almost whiting out around the glass, he purses his lips. He looks so much like Joyce right now. "The last time..."

It clicks. 

"Will," Hopper finishes for him. It didn't even occur to him that this is where they'd had to heat that  _thing_ out of Will's body. "Shit, Jonathan." He runs a hand down his face. "Great start. I didn't think about it."

Jonathan shrugs, takes another swig. "It's okay. Not like this place is haunted or anything, and Will's fine, so it shouldn't be a problem. It's just... a lot, trying to forget what happened here."

"No kidding. I wasn't even here for it and I still—" His voice trails off and he clears his throat.

"Still what?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, but now Jonathan's looking at him with squinted eyes and it's bad enough when  _Joyce_ does it, so he focuses on his beer instead. "Just know it's gotta be hard to deal with. How's he holding up?"

This isn't what they're supposed to be talking about, isn't at all what Jonathan came over for, but it's safe territory.

"Will's fine," he's told. "Still has nightmares sometimes, which is what I assume you were about to say before you stopped."

Hopper's eyes slowly lift to his. "You've got no idea what you're talking about."

"Bullshit."

“Jonathan.” Taking a deep breath, he sets his bottle onto the table with a small thud. "Not here to talk about my issues."

Jonathan shakes his head. "Isn't that exactly what we're here to talk about, though?" he asks, voice gaining confidence as he goes. "Your issues. One being me, the seventeen year old kid you didn't know you had?"

Hopper groans. "Okay, yeah,  _that_. None of the others." Pausing, he squeezes his eyes shut. "And you're not an issue, kid."

There’s an eerie silence that goes on for too long, and when Hopper opens his eyes Jonathan’s regarding him strangely. Not confused, but more... assessing. Like he’s trying to figure something out, and he thinks this is worse. 

“What?” he finally grits out, having had enough of the blinking and the quiet and the staring. 

“Just surprised, I guess,” Jonathan shrugs. 

“That I don’t think you’re an issue?” At the boy’s neutral shrug, Hopper lets out a deep noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Jeez, kid, what kind of man do you take me for?”

Jonathan’s raised brow clues him into yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best question to ask. Or maybe it is.

“Well, out with it,” he says then, proverbially giving Jonathan the floor. “We’ve gotta talk about this sometime and your impression of me might as well be a start.” 

“Seriously?” Hopper nods mutely. “I’m—I mean, I don’t think you’re a... bad guy or anything,” he says, looking anywhere but at him. Kid’s uncomfortable. “I wasn’t sure at first, because of your reputation and everything, but then you helped us with Will and you helped my mom, so... I don’t dislike you.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jonathan says. “I  _do_ , I can’t be mad about stuff you did before you were... I don’t know, around more, I guess, and I can’t hold anything against you about—well, about this. I know you didn’t know.” 

“Your mom told you.” It’s not a question; Joyce told him that she’d told Jonathan the truth, that she’d hid it from him for all of these years as well.

“Yeah. Said not to be upset with anyone but her because she didn’t tell you either.”

Hopper nods. “’Least we have that in common, right?” he tries, and the corners of Jonathan’s mouth curl a little. Progress. “I uh—I would’ve been there if I’d known, you know. For your mom and for you. I was a punk kid but I wouldn’t... I would’ve come around and done what was right.” 

“Because you got her pregnant and not because you wanted to,” Jonathan hedges, sitting up a little straighter.

“It’s not like that,” Hopper says, shaking his head. “Joyce and I were... we were a special pair back in high school. When we weren’t  _together_ we were still together, Joyce and Hop, and I’ve always—” He pauses, closing his eyes. Conversation for another time, and absolutely not with this Byers. “Well, that’s not important right now, but just know that there’s no way I would have left your mom alone if she’d have told me.”

Jonathan stares for a little before looking down, wringing his hands in his lap as he thinks. It’s unsettling not knowing what’s going on in his head, but Hopper doesn’t know what he’s doing either so he figures waiting it out is the best course of action. 

“Okay,” he breathes after a few minutes. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Finishing off his beer, Hopper sets the glass down on the wooden table. “So, your mom told me you ran off after she told you.”

“I didn’t  _run off_ ,” he corrects. “I just had to get out of there for a little bit. Figure out what was going on.”

“Do anything stupid?”

Jonathan laughs. “No. It would’ve been justified, I think, but I just went to see Nancy.”

Hopper nods along. “You tell her?”

“I told her what I knew then, that Lonnie wasn’t my dad and my mom wouldn’t tell me who it was. I didn’t tell her it was you, though. When I knew, I mean.” He hesitates and then continues, quickly, “Not because I’m ashamed or something, I just don’t want to tell people yet.”

“Not gonna offend me, kid. The less who know right now the better. Your mom doesn’t need any more problems in town.”

Jonathan nods. “Yeah. And I’m—I’m worried about what Lonnie would do if he found out.”

Reaching over, Hopper feels the need to place a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “He won’t do a damn thing, you hear me? I won’t let him touch your mother. Won’t let him go near you, either.” 

With pursed lips, Jonathan offers an appreciative nod. “Thanks.” 

“He’s an asshole—shit, sorry, I shouldn’t say that to you.”

But Jonathan just laughs, bitter and low, and shakes his head. “He’s not my dad,” he says easily, and the hair on Hopper’s arms stand on end. “He  _is_ a piece of shit. I think he could always tell something was off or whatever. Never liked me. But at least now I know why I don’t look like him, right?”

The comment makes Hopper think, has him trailing his gaze over the boy sitting across from him. He doesn’t look like Lonnie, not at all, and of course there’d be no reason for him to. But he didn’t always know that, so he never made the connection. Now, however, looking at him, he sees it. The kid has Joyce’s eyes, one hundred percent, but he has his bone structure.

He looks like him. 

Jonathan’s a  _Hopper_ , last name be damned. 

“I look more like you than I do Mom,” Jonathan says, as if reading his mind. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the baby picture at home, but I was really blonde. Probably looked like you then, too, since Mom’s... well, very not blonde.” 

“I haven’t,” Hopper manages, throat dry. 

Jonathan shrugs. “Maybe you could come over, look at them or something. If you wanted to, obviously.” 

He wants to see them. He wants to look at all of Jonathan’s baby photos and see the physical resemblance between the two of them, wants to watch through pictures as his son grew up. The thought alone makes his heart speed up a little, emotion stirring in his veins he didn’t expect, but he probably should have.

Hell, near-adult or not, this is his  _kid_ sitting here. His kid and Joyce’s kid, and there are hundreds of photos somewhere in her house of their boy growing and changing and he wants to go through them all.

“Yeah, I want to.”

* * *

They venture into more neutral territories for a bit after that, just to get back onto even footing and to lessen some of the too-emotional thoughts racing through Hopper’s mind. 

He’ll deal with them another time, another place.

But then Jonathan asks him what  _he_ thought, what went through his mind when Joyce told him, and he pauses. Replaying the moment in his head, he wants to wince at the sound of Joyce’s sobbing in his ears, getting quieter and quieter only because he was storming away. It’s not his fault, he knows, and she couldn’t have begrudged him for reacting the way he did—and she doesn’t—but he still wishes there was less crying.

Joyce crying has always been a downfall for him, a weak point.

He remembers a time in high school, not too long after they first met, when he found her crying on the steps behind the building. He didn’t know why, and still to this day he has no idea, never got it out of her, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed into his t-shirt while he awkwardly held her. It seemed to make her feel better, even if she was embarrassed about the whole episode, but he just wiped under her eyes and offered to punch whoever did it, and she’d laughed.

He still wonders what happened, but he’ll never forget the sight of her sitting there, all red-eyed and puffy-cheeked and so upset. He hated it then, and he’s hated it every time since, and being the source of Joyce’s crying isn’t one of his proudest moments.

But Jonathan doesn’t need to know any of this.

“I was surprised,” is what he settles for. “I didn’t expect to be told I had a seventeen year old I never knew existed.” 

“That’s fair,” Jonathan says quietly. “Were you upset?”

“At your mom? Absolutely. I’m still upset, if I’m being honest. I’ll probably be upset for a long time,” he admits. He can’t hate her, and he’s not  _mad_ at her anymore, but he’s not sure this wave of disappointment will go away so quickly. “About finding out you were my son? No.” 

The honesty and sincerity in his voice catches them both off guard. 

“You’re a pretty damn good kid, Jonathan,” he says with a small laugh. “‘Course that’s all your mother and no thanks to Lonnie, and I wish I could’ve been there for it, but you came out all right.”

Jonathan smiles, an actual smile. A little embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“This a little less weird now?”

“Not really.”

And they both laugh, because no, he supposes it won’t be any less weird for a while. If it ever stops getting weird. 

There should be some formal talk about what they want going forward, and Hopper knows that’s what Joyce is expecting from this entire ordeal right now, but he and Jonathan don’t feel the same way. Outlining do’s and don’ts, a list of what they each expect or want from each other, seems  _wrong_. Weird, too weird for them even in spite of the cloud of utter weirdness they’re already covered by. So they don’t do it.

Instead, they decide to take things as they come. 

Hopper will come over for dinner more often, at some point he’ll tell El and Jonathan will tell who he feels fit, and they’ll work it out. Jonathan will come over to the cabin to hang out when there’s free time, and they’ve even settled on some on-on-one “bonding” time. They’ll go to movies or museums or whatever else seems fitting, and that’ll be that. 

It’ll be a slow process, but they’re working at it. They both  _want_ to work at it, which is the first step. 

He knows Jonathan is going off to college soon and he also knows neither he nor Joyce will outright accept any of his help, but he’s hatching a plan to sneak some of his money into that pot regardless. This is his kid, not just Joyce’s, and he’s in a position where he can help. Joyce needs it but won’t ask for it, and so maybe if he helps and they just don’t  _talk_ about it, it’ll be okay.

It’s something he’ll figure out when Jonathan graduates and the time comes.

“You don’t have to call me  _dad_ or anything,” Hopper says as he walks Jonathan to the door, a hand on his shoulder and an amused lilt to his voice.

Jonathan laughs, loud and surprising. “Oh thank god.” 

Shaking his head, he hesitates for just a second before pulling the kid into a hug, something releasing in his chest when Jonathan hugs him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be honest, guys: one of my favorite shows got cancelled and I'm feeling really off and I don't know if this is some of my best writing/editing. But I didn't want to put it off any longer because I don't know if that'd actually make it any better, and you guys deserve this long-awaited moment. So apologies for any small errors!
> 
> Hopefully it's just my current mood and it's not as sub-par as I feel it might be.
> 
> Other than that, as always I can't thank you all enough for your support and kind words. They mean so much :) xx


	19. Chapter 19

They make it work. It's rough and it's weird and there are whispers around town ( _he's spending an awful lot of time with that Byers boy_ ), but they make it work. Joyce isn't sure if it's better or worse that they all assume he's buttering up to Jonathan to get closer to her. As if he'd do that, as if he'd _need_ to do that. But then she remembers they don't really know about their past together. Nothing beyond town rumors and not anyone who didn't go to high school with them. 

Even then it's mostly Karen who knows the important bits, and Joyce swallows it down.  _Let it roll off_.

The only thing that matters, Hopper keeps reminding her, is that they aren't guessing the truth. No one thinks Jonathan is Hoppers son; no one knows outside of those they’ve chosen to tell.

(Hopper tells El a few months after they settle into a routine. He tells her first that Jonathan is his son, which he hopes will be enough and she'll be confused but ultimately let it go without too many questions.

His hopes are shot right down when she looks at him with those big eyes of hers and asks, voice serious, "So you and Joyce... had sex?"

He spends the next fifteen minutes choking, recovering from choking, and stewing in the discomfort of it all.)

" _Yes_ , you should go," Joyce says, fussing with the collar of Will's shirt. "Why wouldn't you?"

Hopper groans. "Don't you think it'd be weird for me to just show up?"

"No weirder than anything that's happened in the past few months, no," she counters, finally releasing her son, who takes this opportunity to scurry away before she finds something else about his outfit to fret over. "Your son is graduating high school, Hop. You need to go."

It's still a strange feeling, hearing her refer to Jonathan as his son. It's gotten a little less strange as of late, but his stomach still flips a little when he realizes that shit, yeah, Jonathan is his son.

And he's graduating high school.

"Fuck, I'm old."

"Hey," she admonishes, playfully slapping at his arm. "If you're old then I'm old, and I do not want to feel old today. Got it?"

She feels old most days, and today she just wants to feel... happy. With her son graduating high school and getting ready to go off to college, her other boy safe and sound and within arms reach (physically, right now, because she knows it won't stay this way), and Hopper... well, Hopper just being here.

A laugh escapes from deep in his throat. "'Course." He trails his gaze over her, taking in the drastic change from her daily outfit choice. She's in a dress, for starters, a navy blue thing with bright colored flowers all over it and thin straps, the fabric falling just right. "For the record though, Joyce, you never look old."

Joyce stares at him for a second, mouth open.

Will comes speeding back into the living room before she has a chance to say something, though she's not entirely sure what she would've said anyway, and is urging them to  _let's go, Mom, we'll miss Jonathan graduate at this rate_.

“We can't have that now, can we?”

* * *

She's still unwilling to give in, but Hopper was right about his presence at the graduation causing... not a scene, not even remotely close to a scene, but there are talks. Stares, whispers, confused expressions settled on the overly tanned faces of nosy townspeople.

"They're here to watch their kids graduate," Joyce mutters under her breath, crossing and uncrossing her legs. "You'd think they'd be focused enough on that to ignore their  _gossip_. I mean, you're the  _Chief_ for Christ's sake. You know some of these kids, why shouldn't you be here?"

Hopper laughs, low and deep. "They're bored old broads, Joyce. Got nothin' better to do." Joyce continues to stare right back at the not-so-subtle onlookers, who only look away when Hopper gives them a hot glare over her shoulder. Guiding her head slowly away from them, Hopper pats at her knee with his other hand. "Like you said, kid graduating. Pay attention to that."

She nods but her lips remained pursed, annoyance running through her veins.

She wants to scream it out, fuck everyone else in this town. If she's the one to admit it then it loses its power; they can whisper and act like high school girls all they want, but  _she_ has the power to take away their little smirks. One sentence,  _Hopper is Jonathan's father_ , and it'd be over. Sure they'd throw her under the bus, gossip some more, but then it'd be over. Something else will inevitably come along and they'll lose interest.

But she won't do it, of course. Not here, not at her boy's graduation, and not ever, really. It'd be nice in the long run, but there's still too much at stake.

How it'd affect Hopper and his work, Jonathan's feelings (he may be leaving in a few months but this would still be his home, and he'd still have to come back), and, of course, probably the biggest negative to outing themselves: Lonnie.

Lonnie can't know. That's the one thing they've all agreed upon; it'll only cause more harm than good.

"Mom."

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Joyce turns to look down at Will. "Yeah, baby?"

"Jonathan's almost up," he says, and her head whips up toward the stage. They're finishing up the last names beginning with A now, and soon it'll be her boy. "He looks pretty cool in his cap and gown."

Will has Jonathan's camera in his hands, poised and ready to shoot when the time comes. Jonathan didn't want his graduation recorded, tried to say that he didn't like to be the one on camera, but she wasn't having it.

"You're my oldest and I need a video for when I'm old and senile and can no longer remember your graduation," she'd told him in the kitchen one night, and Jonathan had laughed. "Just for me, okay?"

And he had caved easily, nodding along and relenting that  _yes, okay, but you aren't showing it to anyone_ , and she'd promised. There's no one she'd show it to anyway.

Baker. Boilston (tragedy of a last name, Hopper thinks). Butler.

The names dwindle down, one teenager after the next walking across in their caps and gowns, until—

"Jonathan Byers."

Joyce jumps out of her seat, proud tears in her eyes, and claps until her palms are red and aching. The smile on her face is so wide it threatens to split her skin, her cheeks pulling with the effort, but she doesn't care. Jonathan looks in her direction (she's not hard to spot, the only person—aside from Will, who's howling as he records—standing) and laughs a little, casts her a small smile as he continues across the stage and receives his diploma.

She's standing even after Jonathan's left the stage, her hands now covering her smile.

Hopper's the one who eventually pats gently at her side, signals that she should probably sit down because the people behind them might want to see their own kids walk across the stage, and she gasps. Turning around, she offers a sheepish smile and a murmured apology to the couple whose view was directly obstructed by her standing, and then takes her seat once more.

The rest of the graduation is a blur, honestly, because all she can think about is that her son's a high school graduate. Will chatters excitedly beside her as he reviews his footage ("it came out pretty well," he beams, a wide, proud smile on his face, "we might have to deal with my screaming, though.") and at some point, she's not sure when, Hopper's hand has moved to cover her own.

They don't look at each other, but the corners of her lips curl into a small smile.

* * *

"Mom."

Joyce squeezes tighter.

"Mom," Jonathan tries again, laughing a little as his mother clutches to him. Her arms wrap around his neck, palms cradling the back of his head, as more happy tears fall onto her cheeks. " _Mom_."

"Joyce, you're choking the kid," Hopper says after a minute, tapping at her back lightly. She ignores the way the contact burns through her thin dress and scorches her skin.

Joyce chuckles, squeezing once more before finally letting go. "Sorry, sorry," she says as she steps back, the smile never leaving her face. Wiping at the tears beneath her eyes, she takes his face in her palms once more. "My baby boy graduated."

"Not exactly a baby anymore," Jonathan says with a small smirk.

She settles into an expression of mock-seriousness. "You'll always be my baby, sweetheart. Get used to it," she says, patting his cheek once more.

With Joyce now standing with an arm around Will's shoulders, Hopper coughs a little, clears his throat.

"Congratulations."

The boy smiles. "Thanks."

It takes a few seconds, but Hopper steps forward and wraps an arm around Jonathan in a hug; it's quick, but Jonathan hugs him back and Joyce's heart swells. They're getting better at the hugging thing. They don't do it often, but with each one they get progressively less awkward.

"I'm uh, you know, proud of you," Hopper tells him, and Joyce can tell by the way that he rubs at the back of his neck, the way he's standing, that he's nervous. But she can also tell that he's emotional. It's in the set of his jaw, the hard swallow of his throat to keep from tearing up. Joyce grins, fights back a fresh wave of her own tears.

Hopper's a big tough guy, but he's also a softie. A big 'ole softie who just watched his only son graduate in a room full of hundreds of people who don't know he's a father.

( _That's why_  he'll tell her, later, when they're alone on her back porch, that he didn't let himself get overtly emotional.

It makes sense.

She'll call him on his bullshit with a grin, though, tell him he just didn't want anyone to see him cry, and he'll laugh. This watery thing, crawling over the lump deep in his throat to break free.

And then he'll cry a little, Joyce's comforting presence, her arm around his back, to keep him company.)

"Oh, thanks," Jonathan says with a nod. He takes his cap off and holds it against his chest. "Thank you."

"Okay, wait, Jonathan—stand next to Will," Joyce says just as they're all ready to clear out of the overly crowded gymnasium. They're all, thankfully, huddled hear one of the back walls, so at least they're not in anyone's way. Jonathan groans. "No, hey, come on. It's your graduation. We're taking pictures."

Ignoring his exaggerated stagger to the back wall, as if it's the most taxing thing she's ever asked him to do, Joyce makes gestures similar to what she'd assume herding cattle is like. Arms swinging, wrists flicking and fingers pointing, hands guiding.  _A little to the left. Your other left, Will. Jonathan, look like you're enjoying yourself. No, wait, the right a little, there's a food cart_ —

"Mom," Jonathan laughs. "Please."

"Okay, okay," she grins, holding the camera up. "Now smile!"

This goes on for another ten minutes, Joyce getting every possible combination of photos she wants and everyone else going along with it because it's Joyce. At one point, Karen, Ted, and Mike end up making their way to the back as well, their own graduate in tow.

"Congratulations, Nancy," Joyce says, giving the girl a light hug. "Oh! Go stand next to Jonathan."

" _Mom_."

"Joyce."

" _What_ , it's—"

"Graduation," Jonathan, Hopper, and Will all echo matter-of-factly, finishing for her. She gives them a look.

Nancy laughs but follows Joyce's instructions, handing her cap off to her mother before it's handed right back— _keep it on for the picture, honey_ —and stands next to Jonathan. The two graduates smile for the photo and then mingle for a bit, Will having already skidded around the adults to talk to Mike.

"So, this is something, huh?" Karen needles, smirking as she looks from Joyce to Hopper.

"That's one way to put it."

Joyce nods, blowing out a breath. "It's nice. To have it all out in the open," she says, agreeing with Hopper while keeping her voice low. Ted doesn't know, and it's not as if he's paying attention (par for the course), but she can't be too careful. "Finally."

"Good, I'm glad," her friend says. "This is how it should be. I'm happy for you guys, really."

"Thank, Karen," Joyce breathes, pulling her into a hug. "For everything."

Karen's been a godsend throughout this entire ordeal, whether she knows it or not. Joyce isn't great at making time for herself, what with the boys and her job, but Karen's trying—slowly but surely—to ensure that they don't go through another decades-long disappearing act where they don't speak or see each other. It's what she wants, too, because she  _does_ miss Karen. Despite their obvious differences, she's missed her all of those years, and in some ways, that damned blood typing lab was a blessing.

Beyond the good it did (in the long run, because there are still rocky moments) for her and Hopper, for Jonathan too, it brought her back together with a good friend. Karen was the one all those years ago in Benny's restaurant who told her she should tell Hop, that in spite of Joyce doing the complete opposite, in spite of her making what Karen believed to be a huge mistake, she never judged her for it. Never told a soul what she knew.

And now she's here again, helping her through the uncharted waters of this transition.

She's grateful.

"Of course, honey," Karen tells her, squeezing her once before letting go. "Okay, come on kids. I'm  _starved_. Joyce, we're heading to lunch—why don't you all join us?"

Her mouth opens, a polite decline on the tip of her tongue because it'd be nice, but she knows she can't afford wherever Karen's planning to take her family, when Hopper puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and speaks for her.

"Sure, why not," he says, and she whips her head around, eyes flying to his. "What? Kid's graduation, he deserves a nice meal. And I'm hungry."

She lowers her voice to a whisper. "But Hop..."

"My graduation present," he interrupts seriously. He has something else in mind—the money he's been secretly putting into Joyce's stash for Jonathan's college fund—but he can manage a meal, too. "We could all use it. It'll be fun."

So Joyce just smiles, fights against her natural instinct to buck against the gesture and hopes she can convey with her eyes how much this means. How appreciative she is.

"Perfect," Karen grins, shuffling her kids in front of her. "Ted, make sure you grab the bags."

Ted makes a noncommittal noise and then they're off.

But before they go, Joyce asks Karen to take one final picture. Of the four of them.

* * *

When Jonathan leaves for college, Joyce is a mess. A crying, distraught,  _proud_ mess.

Nancy is going to NYU too, for journalism, and so she and Jonathan had decided they'd make the drive together. They're only taking the essentials, a few suitcases each, which easily fit into the backseat and the trunk. The big stuff was shipped overnight, thanks to Hopper and much to Joyce's dismay.

"Traveling with a mattress on top of of the car is a pain in the ass, Joyce," he'd told her. "Not to mention dangerous. That thing slides onto the windshield? Game over."

She knows the odds of that happening are slim, especially when they'd make sure that thing was strapped on perfectly before even letting Jonathan leave, but he knows the safety aspect would loosen her up and it had worked. It does make her feel better that Jonathan doesn't have to worry about any of that, but she still hates that Hopper's just... paying for all of this.

("He's my kid too, you know," he'd said when she told him how much she hates it. "Half the genes, half the money. That's the deal."

She'd huffed and puffed and given him the silent treatment, but she couldn't dispute it.

It's not what she's accustomed to—no, she's more acquainted with the money stealing, the gambling, the groaning every time she asked Lonnie to pick up a gallon of milk for their sons' breakfast.

This just takes some getting used to.)

"Mom, I'll be  _okay_ ," Jonathan assures her. She doesn't loosen her grip though, and he gives a pleading look to Hopper over her shoulder. "I'll let you know as soon as we get there, and I promise I'll call home often."

Nodding from where she's burrowed herself in his chest, she sniffs as she pulls away. "I know. I know, baby," she says, smoothing her palms down his shirt. "I'm  _so_ proud of you, you know that? So proud."

Jonathan smiles. "I know, Mom."

"Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble for me," she says jokingly to Nancy, who's standing off to the side.

The girl laughs. "I promise, Mrs. Byers."

He hugs Will and tells him that the stuff in the box in the corner of his bedroom is fair game (it's mostly old photography stuff he doesn't need anymore, posters, a bunch of CDs and mixtapes, and some clothes that are too small now), and his little brother beams.

With goodbyes said and done, another hug between Jonathan and Hopper in which Jonathan thanks him for everything he's done and Hopper gets teary-eyed (Joyce pretends not to notice, but she does), and one last crushing squeeze from Joyce, their son is settling into the car with Nancy. They stand on the porch until he's gone and out of sight, and then Joyce lets one last sob break free.

"He'll be fine. He's a smart kid," Hopper tells her, a palm pressed between her shoulder blades.

Joyce nods. "Yeah. I know."

Hopper stays for another smoke and a cup of coffee before he has to get back to the cabin, but he promises to come back tomorrow. Things are easier now than they were, all a little lighter since that day Joyce told him about the secret she'd been harboring for seventeen years, but he's under no impression it'll all be smooth sailing. Neither is she, and that's okay.

They’ll get there.

Fleeting glances and light touches and shared smokes are enough for now.

As Hopper slides into the front seat, he digs his wallet from his pack pocket before he has a chance to sit on it. The polaroid sticks out and he plucks it from the confines of the fake leather, holds it delicately between his fingers. Looking back at him are four smiling faces, and if no one knew any better, it'd look just like a family portrait.

He allows his smile to match its twin for a few moments, and then the photo is tucked back into its rightful place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end, folks! I can't even thank you all enough for the support you've given this story. All of your kind comments have made my day and meant so much to me. I hope you've enjoyed this little journey as much as I have!
> 
> Until next time ❤


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